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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138311">The Embers in My Mind Burn Hotter Than My Soul</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/pseuds/AppalachianApologies'>AppalachianApologies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Burning Cinders [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, But also, Comfort, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Hurt Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, In which spencer tries and fails spectacularly to take care of himself, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Question: do all of these count as characters even if they're dreams?, Ralvez - Freeform, Spencer Reid Whump, Whump, but that's okay because he has a good family, that tag is the spoiler you get for this fic lol</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:21:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>84,606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138311</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/pseuds/AppalachianApologies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer knows what he needs to do in order to take care of himself. The problem is actually going through with it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Luke Alvez/Spencer Reid, Past Maeve Donovan/Spencer Reid - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Burning Cinders [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039678</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>193</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. You Can Take a Single Step Forward</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Whoooo! What is up my friends!! Hello! Hi!! I missed you all so freaking much! I'm so sorry that this ended up taking like two weeks instead of one oops. However I just finished finals, so yay! And I got into the college that I really wanted so!!! :DD</p><p>Anyway. I'm very excited to share this book! I know exactly where it's heading, but I'm still a bit unsure of the roadmap to the ending, if that makes sense. That being said, I'm still super happy to be writing this again! Spencer's going to deal with more trauma from his past, and also have some feelings of loooooveeee &lt;3</p><p>The biggest shoutout to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightTerror/pseuds/BrightTerror">BrightTerror,</a> who lets me scream to her about anything at any time of day, and to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo">Pied_Pollo,</a> who spends a bunch of time writing with me!</p><p>(also I only edited this once so there's probably quite a few mistakes lol)</p><p>I really hope that you guys are excited for this as I am, and please enjoy! :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Spencer knew that he was probably freaking Derek out. It’s not very surprising though, given that Spencer went from being catatonic one second, and manic the next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Excitedly talking with his hands, Spencer reiterates, “I just need to go to my apartement!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid, I’m not driving you halfway across town unless you tell me why,” Derek replies, worry evident in his brows. Even Cloony looks up from the floor, giving Spencer a side eyed look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Spencer smiles, “I’ll take the bus!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek closes his eyes for a second, giving a quick prayer to a God that he hasn’t thought about for nearly a decade. “You’re not taking the bus. Just talk to me. Why do you need to go to your apartment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to get something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer awkwardly looks to a point on the wall behind Derek. “A jacket-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell no!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not to wear it!” He quickly explains. “It was an old jacket. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> an old jacket. And I just- I- I need it to remind me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shallow and worry filled laugh, Derek admits, “Kid, you’re kinda freaking me out here. You’ve been out for twelve hours and now you’re demanding to go to your apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m good,” Spencer answers, possibly a little too quickly. “I promise I’m good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blowing out a breath, Derek tries, “Before we’re doing anything, you need to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not hungry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s 7:30,” Derek answers, not taking no for an answer. Not when it comes to the health of his kid brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s silent for a few moments before conceding, “Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want to eat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything. Leftovers. I don’t care,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek doesn’t make any indication that he’s going to move to the kitchen. “Are you feeling alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer quickly answers, “Yeah. Why? What’s up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re just,” Derek waves a hand in front of him, trying to find words without offending the younger man. “Making me a bit worried.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrunching his eyes, Spencer gives Derek a look. “I’m good. I promise. I’ve never been better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s what’s worrying me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I carried you up to the guest room ten hours ago while you refused to acknowledge anything in the world around you.” Derek takes a quick breath, stopping himself from losing his cool. “Do you know how close you were to hospitalization?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, that seems to get to Spencer. “Oh. No. Sorry for worrying you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can make it up to me by eatin’ some food. And then we’ll talk about going to your apartment. Deal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer nods. “Deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With worry still etched on his face, Derek watches Spencer as he eats, and doesn’t even feel guilty about it. Something tells Derek that the younger man is about to crash, and he wants to be there if it happens. Or rather, </span>
  <em>
    <span>when </span>
  </em>
  <span>it happens. Nothing good is going to be able to come out of this manic mood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprising the older man, Spencer is the first to speak up. “My dad gave me a jacket, when I was really little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Derek urges him to continue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re both profilers. We know that events in childhood shape our entire lives.” Spencer adds, frowning a bit at the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so what?” Derek questions, “Your dad gave you a jacket when you were little and now…? This?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer sucks in a breath. “Well. It certainly didn’t help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving his hands on top of the kitchen counter, Derek can’t help but feel rather confused. “So why do you want to find this jacket? If you don’t think that it helped you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Spencer admits, which puts exactly zero of Derek’s fears to rest. “Nostalgia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a scoff, Derek points out, “You’re not doing a good job of convincing me, kid. Seriously. What changed? What’s with the sudden mood?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I made some revelations,” Comes the cryptic answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Going for the bait, Derek questions, “And what were those revelations?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I talked with Maeve,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In a dream.” Spencer quickly adds. “I’m not hallucinating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a look, Derek replies, “I never said you were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Spencer looks down, “But she told me some important things. Or rather, I told myself some important things, because, really, it was just my subconscious-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid, just tell me. What were the big revelations?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just,” Spencer pauses, wringing his hands together hard enough that it looks like he’s about to pull off the skin over his bones. “Want to change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To get better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if Derek wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to stop the smile from growing on your face. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer confirms, “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good. I’m happy for you, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without being prompted, Spencer admits, “I don’t know how, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How what? To get better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, that’s what you have therapy for,” Derek points out with a shrug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer pushes his lips to one side. “Cognitive behavior therapy takes months.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In an attempt to decipher the younger man’s words, Derek questions, “And you don’t want to wait that long? What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost childishly, Spencer replies, “I want to be better now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid,” Derek sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it’s unreasonable. But now that I understand everything about me, I just wish that I could get over it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get over what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything in my head,” Spencer quietly admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a few seconds of silence, before Derek gains the courage to speak up. “Your mind is incredible, kid. You wouldn’t be you without it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to just be it. I don’t want to just be known as the genius,” Spencer replies, looking down to the floor. He wouldn’t mind if it decided to open up and suck him in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer opens his mouth to respond, but then closes it a second later. It continues for a few more cycles, before his diaphragm finally begins working for him. “I wanted to be a cowboy. When I was really little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a small smile, Derek replies, “I didn’t know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nobody does. A few years later I learned advanced calculus and went to college. It was just the dream of a little kid.” Internally, Spencer feels like his heart is dropping out of the bottom of his chest. “I’m only known for the things in my brain. And now,” Spencer swallows, “Everything in my brain is sick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid, there’s more to you than your brain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Spencer can hear an answer that he may or may not appreciate, he turns around. It’s an evasion tactic that’s not very impressive, but it’ll get the job done for now. At least Derek will understand that now isn’t the time to deal with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although part of him thinks better of it, Spencer snatches his phone from his charger, distracting himself with his texts. He has a few new ones from an unknown number, but after a single glance he knows who it’s from.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Unknown Number → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Hey sorry i meant to text you earlier but i got distracted</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh its mari btw</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Probably should’ve started with that</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer takes a deep breath, calming himself from something that he knows he shouldn’t be afraid of. Biting his lip, Spencer replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Hi Mari</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>It’s okay. I had things to do the past few days anyway</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>How are you?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>He waits for a few moments, but she doesn’t respond. Still attempting to avoid a conversation between him and Derek, Spencer moves on to the next notification.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Sorry about when you came over</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I really didnt mean to make you uncomfy</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Like i hope i didnt over step or anything</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Id really like it if you wanted to come over again</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I promise i wont get into any mental issues lol</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Btw you totally dont have to come over again tho</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Its your choice obviously</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s not an expert on texts. Far from it, actually, which is why he usually has Garcia or JJ to help him. But he’s pretty sure that it’s not normal for someone to rapid fire send seven texts. Then again, there’s so much that Spencer couldn’t even dream of understanding when it comes to texts. Figuring he’ll ask JJ about it later, Spencer replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I think it was good for me, actually. Being able to talk to someone who understands.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m sorry if I ended up making you uncomfortable as well</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of Spencer wants to reply about coming over again, but he stops himself. Now isn’t the best time to be making decisions like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he doesn’t have anything to distract him, Spencer turns around to Derek and asks again, “Can we go to my apartment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek thinks about it, but much to the younger man’s surprise, he nods. “Sure. Yeah. As long as you don’t do anything stupid, you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got it,” Spencer nods, sliding his phone into his pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The drive over is fast, rush hour having already passed a few hours ago. There’s a bit of tension between the two men, but Spencer turns to look out the window nearly the entire time, ignoring the unasked questions floating in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that Spencer hasn’t been living in his apartment for the past week, it’s nearly impossible to tell the difference if he was. There’s still a once discarded coffee pot in the sink, and there’s still plenty of books littered on and around the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stopping himself from musing on that fact, Spencer treads over to his closet, doing his best to ignore the clothes that are practically singing to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t need protection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t help. It doesn’t do anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer pushes past the long sleeved shirts and sweatshirts, before looking at the very back of his closets. It’s probably home to a colony of moths, but he doesn’t think too hard about that fact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a few old shirts left from when Spencer purged all of his short sleeves, which surprises him. At the time, Spencer thought he was being very thorough in his cleaning-out. He digs underneath the old Cal-Tech shirts, but the only thing that greets him is dust and the wooden floor with polish that’s been rubbed off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fact that he can’t remember where the jacket is annoys Spencer to no end. He has an eidetic memory, he should be able to remember it just as much as the dead faces from each file in the BAU. But instead, he kneels on the floor, sorting through clothes to find something that is even there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Derek steps in the bedroom, arms crossed with concern. “You good, Pretty Boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Spencer replies, “Can’t find it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t find what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dad’s jacket.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you care so much about it?” Derek questions. It isn’t in a cruel manner, not by any means, but Spencer still frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally standing up from the pile, Spencer states, “It’s one of the first things that I remember. I swear, it’s important to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get that it’s important to you. But important enough for an impromptu trip across town? What’s it really mean to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the question that Spencer wishes he could answer for himself. “I-” Spencer frowns, trying to find the words, before he’s saved by the bell. From his pocket, his phone vibrates, making him jump before he realizes what it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh thats good</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>The fact that talking helped</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You didnt make me uncomfortable either btw</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer squints in confusion, before whispering under his breath, “By the way,” causing Derek to give him a strange look.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>If you want to come over agian i promise that i wont talk about ptsd and stuff</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>*again</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Knowing what the other man is getting at, Spencer quickly replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Sure. As long as you don’t get called on a case, I’m basically completely free</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Cool! awesome</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’re you textin’, Pretty Boy?” Derek asks, pulling Spencer’s eyes from the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luke,” He answers, before clicking off his phone and putting it back in his pocket. Derek keeps looking at him, and Spencer gives him a quick look of confusion before breaking eye contact. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek shrugs, “Nothin’. What’s he texting you about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was wondering if I would go over to his house again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightly chuckling, Derek expands, “Are you going to go see him again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer nods. “I don’t see why not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” There’s a pause, before Derek adds, “It’s good for you, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer looks down, not really knowing how he should be replying. More often than not, he’s been feeling confused when it comes to conversations about Luke. Whatever the case may be, he doesn’t have time to muse on this fact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Motioning to the closet, Spencer states, “My dad’s jacket isn’t in here. But I don’t- I’m not sure where else it could be. I know that I took it with me when I moved here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s not something that you gotta find tonight,” Derek points out. “Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Spencer nods, even when his face betrays him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding to the front door, Derek starts, “C’mon, let’s head home. Savannah and Hank are going to be home soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’d they go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They took a bit of an adventure out into the town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a frown, Spencer questions, “This late?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a beat, Derek answers. “We figured it’d be good if it was quiet in the house, today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why- oh.” Spencer looks away, feeling the guilt course through his veins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Derek quickly replies, even though it doesn’t do much to soothe Spencer’s anxiety. “‘You ready to go back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer bites the insides of his cheek, turning back to face the closet. Slowly, he answers, “Yeah,” but not before nudging around a few clothes with his foot, hoping that the jacket will magically show up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows that Derek’s watching him with a keen eye, but neither say anything about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car ride home is just as quiet and awkward as to the apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they arrive home and the rest of the Morgans still aren’t there, Derek sits Spencer down. “Delilah wants to see you before your next scheduled appointment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, Spencer nods. “Okay.” He knew that it would be the case, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you feel about that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shrug, Spencer replies, “Makes sense, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek raises his eyebrows. “What’s goin’ through your head?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Spencer honestly answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you wanna get some more sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t feel tired.” Derek opens his mouth to ask another question, but Spencer speaks before it happens. “I just want to figure out what happened,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a confused look, Derek questions, “When? Earlier today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Spencer shakes his head, “No, no, Maeve told me about Mexico.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you talkin’ about, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly, Spencer covers his tracks, “Not a hallucination. A dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never said it was a hallucination,” Derek reiterates once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer agrees, “Right. But. She thinks- or I guess </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> think- that I know what happened in Mexico.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer watches his friend’s lips turn into a frown, jaw clenched. “I thought you were drugged?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...But I still think I know what happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he gives a look, Derek asks, “So what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” Spencer mumbles, looking down at the floor. Even without eye contact, Spencer knows that Derek must be looking confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Derek admits, “Alright, I don’t understand. What’s goin’ on with the things in Mexico? You both know what happened and don’t know what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know yet,” Spencer breathes, “But I think that I’ll be able to figure it out. I don’t think that the memories are lost.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do anything stupid, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek gives him an unamused look, taking no chances when it comes to his kid brother. “And this is comin’ from the guy that wore three layers in the middle of summer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer just awkwardly wrings his hands together. Derek’s not wrong. Wanting to at least shift away from the subject a little bit, Spencer confirms, “So Delilah wants to see me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Derek nods, “She said as soon as you’re feeling better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t… count for right now, does it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek shrugs. “I mean, the office is closed right now, so I don’t think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does that mean I have to see her tomorrow morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer makes a disgruntled noise, but doesn’t say anything. He knows that Derek will continue to press him, so Spencer quickly announces, “I’m going to write to my mom.” It’s a weak excuse to exit a conversation, but he knows that Derek would never stop him from writing to Diana.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, Derek nods, motioning to the kitchen table. “Go for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that Spencer specifically announced it, he doesn’t really know what to write. He spends far too long finding paper and his pen, before slowly sitting down in the kitchen. It’s a little unnerving that Derek’s still there, but Spencer knows that the older man won’t look over his shoulder when he writes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi, Mom</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer starts, before his brain goes completely blank. It shouldn’t be this difficult to write a letter, especially after he’s been doing so for twenty years.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Repressed memories are a topic that’s slightly debated between psychologists,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer scratches out his writing and starts again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve started talking with Mari again. I don’t know if you remember her, but she’s the woman I met in college. She basically took care of me when I was in undergrad. It was before I met Ethan.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer swallows.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It had been over a decade since I last talked with her, but we’ve recently found each other again. Over the phone, that is. She still lives in Indiana.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She has a perfect life, based on what I’ve learned from Garcia and what she’s told me. Two kids, both healthy, and a husband who’s always there. I think she’s even in the PTA.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s just so weird that our paths crossed. I’ve never had a normal life, and I don’t think I ever will, but we still somehow met each other and became friends. The strangest part is that she’s still willing to be friends with me, even now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then again, she doesn’t know the more recent things that’ve happened to me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With a breath, Spencer crosses out that last line. Diana doesn’t know what happened, and there’s no reason to worry her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I wonder what events in my life even made me like this. I don’t think I’ve ever had the normal life that Mari had. About two thirds of marriages end in divorce, so that wasn’t very unusual, but between my age in school and your illness, I think that’s when things started to get weird for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When I was younger, I remember you telling me about your childhood. With your sister and parents. It sounded extremely average, which makes me wonder, how did we turn out like this?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There were times that I wished we could be normal, but those were few and far between. I love you, and I loved our little two person family. Now though, now it feels like I don’t know how to be normal because I never learned.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s always seemed like Morgan was in the same boat as me, but now he has a perfect and normal family too, and I don’t even know when it happened. Logically, I understand that he found Savannah and decided to change his life, but it’s difficult convincing the emotional part of my brain.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Most people aren’t able to manage that when they leave the BAU.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gideon almost did it. I guess he managed to live an almost normal life for nearly seven years. But then we found out that he was tracking serial killers all along, and his normal life disappeared once again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Even Rossi, who stayed out of the game for years, still came back to it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Morgan is one of the only people that have somehow managed a normal life. I think Alex might’ve achieved that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you remember Dr. Alex Blake. She was with our team for a short while, but she was an excellent profiler. She’s also the only other one to manage staying away from the BAU.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That being said, I suppose you could argue that Hotch has a normal life. Or at least, as normal as you could get when your wife is brutally murdered and your son has to be put in witness protection for the second time in his life.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as Spencer gets the words out, he draws a few black lines through them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Or at least to a degree. I think the BAU stays with us forever.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s all I’ve been doing for my life. I don’t even know if I would be able to do something different at this point.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Along with a deep sigh, Spencer lets his shoulders drop.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going to try and visit you soon, I think. I miss you, mom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like the beginning, Spencer doesn’t know what to write. It feels impossible to end a letter. It’s like ending a one sided conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost mechanically, Spencer writes the address down on an envelope, before sticking the letter in and pushing it to the edge of the table. Even after he’s withdrawn his hands back to his lap, Spencer keeps his eyes on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Diana’s letters have been fewer and far between, lately. Spencer knows that she’s getting sicker and sicker, but he’s still been trying to block it out. He hoped that if he didn’t visit Diana, Spencer could somehow convince himself that she wasn’t getting worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now, he’s realizing that all he’s doing is avoiding his mother while she’s still alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What kind of son does that make him? It’s no different from the day he turned eighteen, when he sent his mom to Bennington, only to never see her again for nearly seven years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s pulled out of his thoughts when his phone buzzes.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Ok quick change of plans!</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Im still brining cookies tomorrow</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer frowns, thinking of all of the possibilities she could be writing. If there’s one thing Spencer especially hates, it’s a change in schedule. Not knowing how to respond yet, he just awkwardly watches the screen with three dots, waiting for Garcia to finish her thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Rossi is also coming over to morgans to bring things</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Because he said that cookies are not a food group</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>With a smile, Spencer replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I look forward to seeing both of you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And for future reference, I think that cookies could be a food group.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>The response is almost instantaneous.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Right?????</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Like not all of us can live off of just pasta</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I think that cookies and pasta would be a good meal to survive on</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>It would be a very carbohydrate heavy diet</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Worth it</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer grins back at his phone, wishing that he could actually see his friend’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps when she comes over tomorrow, Spencer can ask her about Luke’s texts. Spencer can always rely on Garcia to help understand texts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless she knows something that Spencer doesn’t, which seems to be the case with JJ and Derek. Why is it that all of his neurotypical friends just seem to understand things?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daddy!” Hank’s voice causes Spencer to nearly jump out of his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turns, Spencer can see Hank rigling out of his mother’s grasp to run over to Derek, little hands reaching up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obliging a silent demand, Derek puts Hank on his hip and greets, “Hey, Little Man. How was your day? What’d you and Mommy do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We went to the park!” Comes Hank’s excited reply. “And- and- and I swinged really high!” He adds, looking to his father with bright eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah? How high?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really high! Up to the sky!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a smile coming to his face, Spencer watches the pure interaction between his godson and friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t even notice that Savannah’s walked up to him until she sits down into the next chair over. With a voice far quieter than her son’s, she asks, “Are you feeling better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Much,” Spencer nods, tearing his eyes away from Hank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With another nod, Spencer confirms, “I’m sure. Thank you for asking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Savannah gives him a smile that looks far too forced to be real. Spencer doesn’t know what it means. “When’d you get up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that long ago. Maybe an hour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you sleeping that entire time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer replies, suddenly feeling like he’s on the stand. “I haven’t been sleeping that well lately. So it was… nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes looking up, Savannah questions, “Since the nightmare, right?” When Spencer doesn’t immediately answer, she quickly adds, “I’m not poking around or anything. I heard it. A few nights ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry for waking you up,” Spencer apologizes, not really knowing how else to reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking her head, Savannah insists, “Don’t apologize. I’m just glad you were able to get some sleep. Are you sure you’re feeling better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Savannah looks like she’s about to continue, but it takes her a few seconds to get here. “Derek was really worried.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Awkwardly looking down, Spencer apologizes again, “Oh. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still don’t need to apologize,” Savannah lightly chuckles. “Just know that we’re looking out for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Spencer genuinely replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s no problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer nods at the response, but inside, his stomach is churning. It’s so very strange for someone to care about him so unconditionally. ‘It’s no problem.’ It’s been a long time since Spencer has had someone to take care of him without it being a burden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time was probably when he was with Mari. But even then, that was more of an obligation. It’s not like she was going to leave a twelve year old to care for himself at a college full of undergrads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spencer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, he looks up. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked if you think you’re going to be able to get some more sleep tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a beat, Spencer answers, “I think so. Is it weird that I’m still tired?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Assuaging his fears, Savannah quickly answers, “Not at all. It’s been awhile since you’ve gotten a good night’s sleep, so it makes sense that one nap, even a long one, doesn’t do the trick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trick. What trick? The trick of sleep, even though it isn’t a trick. A trick is a cunning or skillful act or scheme intended to deceive or outwit someone. Then again, that definition does fit quite well when it comes to Spencer. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a good chance that Maeve won’t be there in his dream. That thought alone is scary enough to keep Spencer wide awake. He doesn’t know if he can cope with a dream- with a world- without Maeve. She’s his everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows what she told him though. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You don’t need me as a fragment anymore.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She may never come back now. Earlier today could’ve been the last time that Spencer will ever see Maeve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, any sane person would tell Spencer that the last time he saw Maeve was five years ago. Spencer’s never been one to fit into the ‘sane’ category though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spencer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” When he looks up, Savannah is giving him a look full of concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frowning, she questions, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Savannah starts, thoroughly unconvinced. “You just seem to be spacing out. ‘You sure there’s nothing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer nods, before any possible truth could come out. Awkwardly standing up, he announces, “I think- um- I think I’ll go back upstairs. Get some more rest.” Before any objections can be made, Spencer’s already walking up the staircase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer knows that it isn’t healthy to be holding into Maeve for this long, he really does. But the thought of having to live without her is painful. She’s one of the only people that Spencer thinks he actually could’ve had a future with. Ethan’s probably the other one, but it’s been so long that Spencer doesn’t even remember what he felt with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s not true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer remembers the butterflies in his stomach like it was yesterday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers his love for Ethan like it was yesterday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why does everyone leave him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now Maeve, who isn’t even Maeve, is leaving him too. Spencer’s not good enough to even hold onto his subconscious. That’s got to be a new low. Mutely, he wonders if Diana ever had to go through the same feelings as Spencer has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did Diana ever lose her subconsciousness?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer tries to take off a blanket off the guest bed. He tries, he really does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer knows that the covers have done nothing to help him. However, at the same time he doesn’t know how to live without them. There’s still a part of his brain, a large part, that doesn’t even want to think about functioning without blankets and covers keeping him safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Spencer rolls onto his stomach, letting the blankets wash over him like a wave in the middle of the Pacific.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling his hand under his face, Spencer pauses to look at his fingers. They’re bony. Bonier than he remembers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time that he’s taken a moment to look at his body has been years ago, and despite his eidetic memory, it doesn’t feel familiar. Part of Spencer wonders if he’s really changed this much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t feel very different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe more empty, but nothing like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each of his knuckles jut out from the rest of his fingers, making him look like some poorly stitched doll. That’s really what Spencer feels like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some doll that’s been tossed around for years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can think better of it, Spencer hides his hand back under the pillow. Ignoring the earlier revelation, Spencer shies away from his body. He doesn’t want to see it anymore than his peers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Spencer’s pretty sure he’s not going to see Maeve again, he still forces his eyes to close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maeve told him that it’s time to move on, but Spencer still can’t stomach the feeling. It’s not that he doesn’t want to grieve for her, it’s that he doesn’t want to have to grieve </span>
  <em>
    <span>again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer keeps his eyes closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps his eyes closed, and tries not to think about Maeve as he falls asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when he opens his eyes in his dream, Maeve is nowhere in sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he sees Lindsey Vaughan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lindsey Vaughan, and her wicked little smile.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I Lied, Step Back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Spencer wants to find out what happened in his past, but it seems like everyone's in the way of that.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(adding to my chapter summary like: ...also luke is a himbo)</p>
<p>Hello! I know that Charcoal was updated every three days, and this was four days later, but, to be fair, I do have a pretty good excuse. I had a fucking seizure- so, you know, that's a thing. o.O</p>
<p>I honestly don't know if I'm gonna have an upload schedule for this book, I don't really know what's happening, I'm gonna be honest xD Worst comes to worst, I'll have weekly uploads, you know?</p>
<p>That being said, I hope you all continue to enjoy Embers, especially this chapter!! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They don’t look that different. Their hair actually looks pretty similar. They’re both short women, and their skin color is even the same tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The difference comes from their face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where Maeve is kind and bashful, Lindsey is toxic and arrogant. Where Maeve’s smile creates two dimples, Lindsey’s opens a door to her sins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi Spencer.” Lindsey’s voice is made out of poison. “Maeve told you about me, didn’t she?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing, Spencer replies, “She didn’t tell you anything. You’re my subconscious. Both of you are my subconscious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barely containing a laugh, Lindsey replies, “Okay, fine. If you’re so high and mighty, get rid of me. If I’m only a part of you, remove me from your dream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer choses to look away instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just want to talk-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No you don’t,” Spencer interrupts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a faux gasp, Lindsey exclaims, “So defensive! What’d I ever do to you? Oh wait-” This time she manages to genuinely laugh, “That’s the question, isn’t it? ‘Cause you don’t really know what I did, do you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking away, Spencer stays silent for as long as he can. “Why are you here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because you need to figure out what happened,” Lindsey plainly answers, throwing in a bit of her young adult sass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what? You’re supposed to help me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scoffing, Lindsey points out, “Well, better me than Maeve, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer thinks otherwise. “How do I figure it out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not up to me,” Lindsey laughs. “You gotta do that by yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So then why are you here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re really annoying. Has anyone ever told you that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a swallow, Spencer looks down at his feet. Many people have told him that. Multiple times, in fact. He’s quite pissed off at his subconscious at the moment. “How am I supposed to start remembering Mexico?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, Lindsey asks something useful. “What’s the last thing you remember?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer answers, “Going to the address.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So then what happens next?” She coaxes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t remember.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Throwing up her hands, Lindsey mutters, “You’re kinda useless, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer rubs a hand over his face. His body better find this sleep useful, because he knows his brain doesn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he doesn’t answer, Lindsey tries again, “Here, I’ll give you a head start. This was the house you were in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sure enough, the world around Spencer transforms from a Las Vegas city park to a home in the middle of nowhere. He can’t see anything out the windows, and Spencer figures that it’s because he doesn’t remember what’s outside of the windows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have fun!” Lindsey cheerily notes, before walking out of the door, leaving Spencer alone in his dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can think better of it, Spencer tries the door. He doesn’t know if he should be relieved or worried that it’s locked. He also doesn’t know if that’s a result of his dream, or if the front door really was locked a year ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The house looks relatively normal. There’s a few dish towels around the kitchen, and an old, but nice, rug on the living room floor. However when Spencer takes a closer look, he sees streaks of read along the floor boards.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ever the profiler, he follows them. It leads to the kitchen, before suddenly ending. Whatever the blood was from, his brain is preventing him from seeing it. The dish towels are now soaked with red, and Spencer doesn’t know where it came from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eyes wide, Spencer whispers, “The knife,” to nobody but himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if rewarding himself with a memory, Spencer uncurls his hand to reveal the old cut on his palm. Only this time, it’s fresh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the wound isn’t a revelation. Far from it, in fact. It’s one of the only things Spencer remembers from mexico. It was from a blade, that’s what they said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now that Spencer’s looking at it more closely, his memories begin to cloud over. It’s not the mark of a defensive wound. The cut is deep, rather than a shallow swipe if he was trying to protect himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Flexing his fingers, Spencer uses his other hand to trace it. If it wasn’t a defensive wound, where did it come from? And why did no one else find it suspicious? All of his friends are profilers, surely they too would’ve noticed that it wasn’t a defensive wound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer continues to look around the kitchen for more clues, but his brain won’t give him anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s frustrating, knowing that somewhere in his mind, Spencer knows exactly what’s happened. He wishes that he had a pirate map to his own brain, with an ‘x’ to mark the memory he needs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, Spencer’s stuck pacing around a random home in Mexico.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lindsey still hasn’t come back, and he knows he isn’t going to get any further in this dream. Closing his eyes, Spencer forces himself to wake up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he opens his eyes, the sun is streaming through the windows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer goes over to the curtains. Every single day that he’s been here, the curtains have been closed. Why are they open now?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of Spencer wants to close them, a quick way to preserve his safety and sanity, but a stronger part of Spencer’s brain prevents him from doing so. This protection isn’t actually helping him, he needs to remember that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still though, the idea of being hidden from the world is almost too much to control. Mutely, Spencer supposes that’s why he’s been so fucked up lately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking down the stairs, Spencer frowns at himself. He smells absolutely terrible. He really needs to manage taking a shower some time soon. Changing clothes every couple of days really isn’t doing the trick anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Moving some scrambled eggs around a pan with a spatula, Derek barely looks up to greet, “Hey kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning,” Spencer plainly answers, ignoring the urge to hide in his sweatshirt. Literally nothing is wrong, but he still wants to hide away. It bothers him to no end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Excited as ever, Hank smiles, “Hi Spencer!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Face curling into a smile, Spencer does his best to happily reply, “Hi Hank!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank’s absolutely delighted with the greeting, and celebrates by throwing a few Cheerios at Spencer, who doesn’t move quick enough to dodge them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Giving a face to his son, Derek announces, “This is why you don’t get eggs, Little Man. Not as easy to clean up off the floor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Hank hums, bringing his fist up to his chin to mimic what he’s seen his father do. “That’s okay!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling his eyes away from the stove top once again, Derek questions, “Are you getting sassy, Little Man? How are you sassy, you’re not even two!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not two!” Hank happily recites, before tossing some Cheerios at Derek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What am I gonna do with you, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In lieu of a reply, Hank just nibbles on more cereal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the corner, Spencer watches with mild amusement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a few moments, Derek nods his head over to the side of the counter and muses, “Check your phone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although a little bit suspicious, Spencer still walks over. “...Okay? Any particular reason why?” He questions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah,” Derek replies, in a way that grows Spencer’s suspicions even further. “Just go check it, ‘kay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a few texts. Actually, no, that’s not true.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a few texts from Garcia and Mari, and then there’s a plethora of texts from Luke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>P. Garcia </b>
  <b>→ S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Im coming over @ lunch!!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Im so excited to see you!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>And rossi is too, even though he wont admit it lol</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grinning, Spencer’s happy to reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m excited to see you and Rossi as well</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Next, he checks the texts from Mari.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I’ve been good</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>A little bit more stressed now that the kids are out of school though</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Wbu?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morgan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All too ready to answer, Derek replies, “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without looking up, Spencer questions, “What does w-b-u mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘What about you.’ Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fingers already moving, Spencer answers, “Mari texted it to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m doing alright</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know exactly how to continue a conversation, so Spencer decides to just leave it there. He’ll ask Garcia when she comes over. She’ll know what to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>So we havent gotten a case yet</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Which is good news in general</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>But it also means that im still free for the time being</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>So if you wanted to hang out today</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I mean i guess thats assuming that we also dont get a case later today</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Theres always the chance of that</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Just let me know if you want to spend some time together?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>If you dont its totally ok</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Dont at all feel pressured to haha</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If there’s one thing that Spencer’s learned over the past week, it’s that Luke texts far more than what seems necessary. Not that Spencer minds, though. Slightly rambling is something that he completely understands. It’s even nice to see it in someone else. It makes him feel less alone, if he’s being completely honest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It’s alright, I’m not feeling pressured.</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I think I’ll be free this afternoon, if you still want to see me and if you don’t get a case.</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Great!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Are you going to come over again?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Assuming that’s alright?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Yeah ofc!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Roxy will be happy to see you haha</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I mean, ill be happy to see yo utoo</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>*you too</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Text me when youre on your way?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Spencer doesn’t know why, his mouth curls into a smile. Luke’s spelling errors are surprisingly endearing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I will make sure to do that</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Cool!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>See you then</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After he sets his phone down, Derek’s already beginning his questioning, “So how’s Luke?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you know I’m talking to Luke? I told you Mari was texting me a few minutes ago,” Spencer points out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a laugh, Derek explains, “How many times do I gotta tell you, kid? You just have that look whenever Alvez texts you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once again, Spencer argues, “I do not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who were you texting then?” Derek quickly counters with raised eyebrows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Spencer reluctantly answers, “...Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To be fair to Spencer, at least Derek doesn’t rub it in. “And what’s happening with Luke?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am going to go see him this afternoon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raising his eyebrow, Derek hums, “Hmmm,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothin’,” He notes, before requesting, “Eat up. You have therapy soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer makes a face, but obliges, picking at his eggs. He’s never been a big fan of eggs, but he knows that Derek’s been extra worried about him lately, and Spencer doesn’t want to give any more reason to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he’s finishing up the last bite of scrambled eggs, Derek nods to his knuckles and asks, “How’s your hand doin’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although it’s covered by gauze, Spencer still peers down at it. “Good. I can probably take the gauze off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go for it,” Derek shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though he feels a bit awkward doing so while Derek is still watching, Spencer unwraps the bandages and takes a look at his knuckles. As he guessed, they’re already mostly healed. All of the cuts were shallow. However as he turns his hand around, the cut from Mexico looks back up at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It definitely came from a blade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘You ready to go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm?” Spencer asks, eyes blinking as he looks up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Therapy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Standing up, Spencer nods, “Oh. Right. I’m ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Derek’s eyes stay on the road, Spencer inconspicuously looks at his palm, cataloging everything about the cut as he can. The scar is still extremely obvious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wound was never stitched up, despite the fact that Spencer’s pretty sure that it was deep. He has vague memories of someone cleaning it up in the holding cell, but he can’t even remember who it was that bandaged it up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Spencer gets out of the car, Derek leans over and advises him, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” With a devilish grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help a smile coming to his own face. “Hah, hah,” He drawls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though he knows he isn’t early, Spencer still gets called in to Delilah’s office rather quickly. He tries to not overthink that fact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” Comes the reply. Spencer isn’t exactly sure where to go from here. Communication has been, and always will be, confusing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Getting straight into it, Delilah asks, “Are you feeling better than yesterday?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Spencer nods, “Much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear that,” Delilah replies, actually sounding genuine, which Spencer wasn’t necessarily expecting. “I know you probably don’t want to think about it, but can you tell me what triggered you yesterday? We were speaking about Georgia when things seemed to get worse for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah’s right, Spencer doesn’t want to think about yesterday. However he doesn’t really have a choice, and so he chooses to reply with a shrug. “I don’t know exactly what it was.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She takes it as an answer. “Okay. Do you know how long you stayed dissociated?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not long,” Spencer answers, although if he’s being completely honest he’s not even sure if that’s true. “I fell asleep shortly after. I think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah scratches a few things down in a file before asking, “Nightmares?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Spencer shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you ever fallen into a dissociative or catatonic state before?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spence shoves his hands underneath his thighs. “Not any time recently.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When was the last time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t remember,” Spencer blatantly lies. He’s pretty sure that Delilah knows that he’s lying too, but she doesn’t say anything about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you have frequent problems with dissociating?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have any friends or family members told you that you often space out during conversations?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing, Spencer gets out, “I know what you’re getting at. I don’t have any type of dissociative disorder. I know I don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking back up from her file, Delilah insists, “I didn’t insinuate that you did. I just want to ask some questions to make sure that it’s not going to happen again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It isn’t going to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How can you be so sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence before Spencer formulates an answer, “I’m sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah makes a quiet noise, but Spencer can’t decipher what it means. “You don’t often think about Georgia, do you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer slowly shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing his hesitation, Delilah quickly adds on, “It’s completely understandable. From what I know, it sounds like an extremely traumatic experience for you, would you agree?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah continues, “And as a way to protect yourself, you avoided thinking about what you went through, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s about to open his mouth to agree, before his brain makes a few quick connections. “What counts as a repressed memory?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although he feels a bit bad for catching Delilah off guard, Spencer’s ready to get a few answers. “I mean, what’s the difference between just not wanting to remember something, and not physically being able to remember something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ever the therapist, Delilah counters with her own question, “Are you concerned about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Delilah nods, before setting her pen and file down and leaning forward in her chair. “Well. To begin, there’s still a lot of controversy regarding repressed memories.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what do you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pulls his legs up to his chest, as if taken physically aback by the unexpected question. “I think so. I mean- I think they’re real.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah nods. “In that case, I think that I should begin with telling you that these are memories that your brain unconsciously forgets. You can’t make yourself forget something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How does that happen then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a little difficult to explain to someone like you,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer questions, “What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you have an eidetic memory, correct?” After Spencer’s nod, Delilah continues, “Ordinarily I’d explain it as just forgetting it like you would forget something mundane, such as having a random breakfast on an ordinary day when you were eleven. However you probably remember that, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer never ate much breakfast when he was eleven. They didn’t exactly have enough money for it. He does, however, remember his stomach growling as he studied physics. With a nod, Spencer confirms, “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s hard to explain how it feels to naturally forget a memory. The point is,” Delilah quickly adds, “Is that you have no control over repressed memories.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So how do you get them back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raising her eyebrows, Delilah points out, “Based on what happened yesterday, I wouldn’t be thinking that far ahead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not ready to give up, Spencer questions, “What if I needed it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only he had thought this far ahead. “...For a case?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, Spencer, I need you to be honest with me. Therapy is only helpful when we’re both honest. Why are you curious about repressing memories?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I think I have,” Spencer plainly answers, looking at a spot on the wall rather than his therapist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“From Georgia?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprising her, Spencer answers, “No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a breath in, Delilah nods, “Okay. What do you think they’re from?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About a year ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah’s quiet for a few moments, leg idly tapping the side of her chair, deep in thought. Eventually she speaks up, “I’m going to tell you what I said before, based off of what happened yesterday, I wouldn’t try to dive into any repressed memories. If you’re telling the truth, and you completely remember what happened in Georgia, the consequences of going over something that you don’t even remember could be serious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How would I go about it, though?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking her head, Delilah points out, “It’s not something that happens in a day. And even if it were, we wouldn’t try anything. Not at this point.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s still not happy with her answer, but he doesn’t press any further.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah, on the other hand, takes that as an invitation to speak. “This is a shorter appointment, so I can’t really dive into anything big, okay? What I need you to do for the next three days is avoid any possible triggers, that you know of, from Georgia. Do you think you can do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer reluctantly agrees, “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And,” Delilah continues, “Don’t try to do anything with memories that may or may not be repressed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s nose scrunches at her words, but he nods again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>May or may not?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows for certain that he must’ve repressed those memories. Because if not, then what happened?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Derek notices that Spencer’s uncharacteristically quiet when he gets home, the older man doesn’t say anything. Hank, on the other hand, isn’t much of a profiler at his age, and almost instantly begins begging for Spencer to play blocks with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Never one to back down from a challenge, Spencer sits on the carpet next to Hank with his legs crossed. Although there are a few plastic cars to the side, Hank prefers the blocks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stacks them up as high as he can, waiting until they collapse to start again. Just like before, it doesn’t take Hank long to learn that his tower lasts longer when he puts the larger cubes on the bottom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, besides that, they don’t have much structural integrity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s taken </span>
  <em>
    <span>a few</span>
  </em>
  <span> engineering classes when he was still getting his PhDs and Master’s, and even with these wooden blocks, he’s able to make a few interesting connections. They don’t have any finish or gloss on them, and the extra friction helps with any building.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, Spencer has as much fun with Hank as the young boy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every so often, Hank will gleefully clap his hands, stuttering out excitement that Spencer can only understand half of. Though despite that, he always indulges in Hank’s excitement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time passes quickly, and before he knows it, Garcia’s bubbly self comes crashing through the front door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nearly dropping a tin full of cookies, Garcia instantly hugs Derek with a loud, “My Chocolate Thunder!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a few long seconds of hugs, Rossi takes her place, giving his signature forehead kiss to Derek. There’s been far too much time between the last time they’ve all seen each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Narrowing in on Spencer, Garcia questions, “187! How’ve you been?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help but smile. “I’m good. How are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Work’s been so sad without you,” Garcia frowns, barely stopping herself from giving Spencer the biggest hug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And although he’s not one for lots of physical contact, Rossi also has to stop himself from getting into Spencer’s personal space. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clapping her hands together, between the cookie tin, Garcia suddenly announces, “I have cookies! Peanut butter cookies! And they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> sugary,” She adds with a wink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have actual food,” Rossi juts in, holding a tupperware container in his left hand. “My famous spaghetti alla carbonara.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow sensing the food, Hank’s already wrapping himself around Garcia’s legs, desperate for some sugar. From the carpet, Spencer watches the domestic scene as Garcia sets her cookies down to pick up and snuggle Hank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It almost feels fake to Spencer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he knows it, the five of them are all seated around the table, nearly inhaling Rossi’s food. It had been far too long since they had Rossi’s home cooked meals, and Spencer can’t believe how much he missed it without even realizing it. His eidetic memory doesn’t exactly transfer over to tastes, and every time he takes a bite he gets to relish the feeling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Hank finishes his small serving (which he suspiciously didn’t throw at the foreheads of anyone), he’s already nibbling on cookies, much to Garcia’s delight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer stays awkwardly still, watching the family around him. It feels like he’s watching from behind a picture frame, like he isn’t really here. The worst part is, Spencer isn’t really bothered by that fact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if knowing exactly what’s going on in his head, Rossi points his head toward the back door and requests, “Let’s take a chat, kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silently, Spencer nods, taking a breath once he’s outside. The Morgan’s backyard gives Spencer the feeling of safety, which he doesn’t quite understand. Logically, Spencer would think that the backyard would make him more anxious, but somehow the open world does the opposite.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not exactly knowing what to say, Spencer awkwardly begins, “The grass smells nice. Fresh. It smells like nature.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raising his eyebrows, Rossi asks, “Didn’t get too much foliage back in Vegas?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Most yard landscapes were different types of rocks,” Looking up, Spencer finishes, “You never had to water them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rossi snorts, eliciting a smile from Spencer. Cursing his body, Rossi ends up sitting down next to Spencer on the grass. “How’ve you been doing, kid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So good that you’ve been called off of all cases for the next month?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barely looking up, Spencer questions, “How do you know about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cryptically, Rossi gives a simple answer, “I know everything that goes on in the BAU.” There’s a beat of silence before he starts up again, “I didn’t realize you were struggling this bad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pursing his lips, Spencer replies, “It’s okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not, though,” Rossi half interrupts, shaking his head. “How the hell did you slip through a team of profilers?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We only profile what we want to see. There’s too much bias between the team,” Picking a few blades of grass, Spencer continues, “I mean, that’s why we have our unspoken rule: no interteam profiling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grinning, Rossi muses, “You know, it’s not an unspoken rule if you just pointed it out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what I mean,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. I’m still sorry though. I didn’t realize how bad things were getting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks down. “It’s not that bad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If being hospitalized in the middle of a case isn’t bad, I don’t want to know what is,” Rossi muses. “How long has this been going on?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The clothes. All these layers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s quiet for a few seconds, trying to find the right answer himself. “I think it’s been going on for a long time. It feels like forever. Forever, with pockets of me almost being okay for a few months.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing his eyes for a second, Rossi murmurs to himself, “Merda.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Rossi can continue any line of questioning, Spencer starts his own. “What happened before I went to prison?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I was in the holding cell,” Spencer expands, “With my hand.” However Spencer doesn’t give the older man any time to answer, “No, wait. What kind of wound does this look like?” Spencer asks, holding up his palm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unsurprisingly, Rossi isn’t too eager to answer. “Why do you want to know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There was a knife at the crime scene, right? Back in Mexico?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kid, this isn’t something that you want to dive into.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dropping his hand back into his lap, Spencer murmurs, “Why does everyone keep saying that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rossi gives him an unamused look. “Why do you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, fine. Rossi does make a point. Unless, “Do you know what happened in Mexico?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No more than anyone else on the team. Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There was a knife. At the crime scene, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rossi gives him a look. “I’m not going to get into this, kid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rossi, please,” Spencer nearly begs, “I have to know what happened in Mexico.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Staying strong, Rossi simply replies, “Then talk to your therapist about it. I’m not going to be a part of this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks like he’s about to counter attack, but after a few moments, he concedes. “Okay. Yeah. I mean, I guess that makes sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two sit in a comfortable silence for nearly a minute. Rossi ends up being the one to break it. “I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not quite following the train of thought, Spencer replies, “We both picked the wrong careers, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha,” Rossi snorts. “That too, but I was referring to your own head. I don’t want you getting all caught up in there, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t really help it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Searching for answers from Mexico certainly isn’t going to help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a frown, Spencer questions, “How can you be so sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You trust me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Comes the quick answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then trust me on this, kiddo. Whatever happened in Mexico, don’t think too hard about it. We know that it wasn’t your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Spencer breathes in, “Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the hot sun still beating down, Spencer and Rossi continue to sit on the grass, lost in their own thoughts. While Rossi stretches out one of his legs that never quite felt the same after the war, Spencer pulls on the grass around him, unable to sit still.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning his head to face the younger man, Rossi questions, “For what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seemingly taken aback, Spencer awkwardly replies, “I don’t know. For being here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Course, kiddo.” There’s a few moments of silence before he continues, “Let’s go back inside though. You’re white as hell and I don’t want you getting burned.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We haven’t been out here for long,” Spencer points out, but still stands up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they open the back door, they’re greeted with Morgan holding down his son, preventing him from climbing up onto the table and into the cookie tin. “I swear, you give this kid a projectile? He’s like Hawkeye, Baby Girl. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> misses!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Derek Morgan!” Garcia exclaims, lightly slapping her best friend’s shoulder, “Do not tell me you’re giving your toddler projectiles!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m giving him cereal!” Derek replies, grabbing Hank’s little fist when he tries to reach for more cookies. Turning to face his son, he states, “Little Man, you have had enough sugar, you don’t need more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blatantly ignoring his father, Hank tries, “Another one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh uh. Maybe more after dinner. But not now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank’s face falls, but doesn’t give up on his climbing goals. If there’s one thing Hank is, it’s determined.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Little Man, you are going to have the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst</span>
  </em>
  <span> sugar crash. You know that right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Evidently not understanding that fact, Hank tries again, “Another cookie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Unbelievable,” Derek grins, pushing the tin further away on the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the side, Spencer points out, “You know, sugar crashes aren’t exactly real? I mean,” Spencer frowns, “To a degree, they are I guess. But only affect people with diabetes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without missing a beat, Derek replies, “I’d believe you, if I haven’t seen my own offspring turn into a demon after last halloween.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He was one years old. How bad could he have been?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a response, Derek sends a friendly glare full of daggers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While sitting on his father’s lap, Hank looks up upside down to find Derek’s eyes. “Daddy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s up, Hanky?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I have another cookie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Derek can do anything, Garcia coos. “Aww, Morgan, how can you say no?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I live with him,” Derek replies, this time sending his look to Garcia.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Garcia opens her mouth to reply, but she cuts herself off before she even begins. Then, suddenly turning toward Spencer, Garcia questions, “So you’re seeing Luke today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s halfway through a nod before, “Wait, how’d you know? Did Morgan tell you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmhm,” She confirms, leaning forward on the table. “So how are things going with him?” Garcia’s smile is more worrying than anything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why is everyone so interested in me and Luke? JJ was like this too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Curious, Garcia asks, “And what did JJ say?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To not worry about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a quick hum, Garcia holds out her hand, “Lemme see your phone, 187.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it,” She teases with a wink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After obliging, and setting his phone in Garcia’s hand, she unlocks it. Spencer wants to ask how she knows his pin, but thinks better of it. Maybe it’s in his best interest to not understand the things that Garcia knows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scrolling through a few messages, Garcia dramatically sighs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, what? About what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Placing his phone screen down, Garcia simply replies, “He likes you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks around the table, but nobody throws him a bone. Not even Hank, who’s still eyeing the cookie tin. “I- uh- wait. He ‘likes’ me? As in-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As in a crush, yes.” Garcia nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t know exactly how to reply, so he ends up settling with a simple, “Oh.” Everyone else on the table keeps looking at him. “He wants to see me today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw,” Garcia notes, taking a glance at his phone. “Are you going to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes? I agreed to. So I wouldn’t see why not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So then why are you still here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the back of his mind, Spencer’s pretty sure that there’s an entire other conversation going on at this table that he doesn’t understand. “Because you two are here?” Spencer looks at Rossi, but he has an unreadable face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Garcia sputters. “Wha- go! Go see your boy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- my what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Kid,” Derek gets in, “Just go see Luke. You wanna ride?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer replies, “I’ll just take the subway. You are all very adamant about me seeing Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what happens when my baby’s oblivious,” Garcia shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer makes a face, but doesn’t reply back. Awkwardly standing up, he then announces, “Okay? So, I guess I’m going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking like he’s about three seconds away from banging his forehead on the table, Rossi mutters, “I cannot take this. Spencer. Just go see Luke. You’ll both be happy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With one last wave, Spencer is off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How did everyone figure out that Luke had a crush on Spencer first? It’s not like they were even the ones reading the texts when they came through. Even JJ seemed to know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m on my way</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Sounds good</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Whats your eta?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a moment to glance at the next subway stop, Spencer answers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>About twenty minutes, I think.</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Standard deviation of approximately three minutes.</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Did you just calculate the standard deviation of the subway system?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I remember all of my rides, so it isn’t that difficult to calculate the mean time and go from there.</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Of course, it’s not completely accurate, seeing as how I typically only ride the train at certain times of the day.</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Really that’s the standard deviation of the morning trips, now that I think about it</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Thats actually so cool that you know that</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Really?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>yeah!!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I would literally have no idea what to do haha</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Especially not in my head</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Idk how youre able to do stuff like that</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Spencer’s thumbs are itching to start an explanation, he’s pretty sure that Luke meant that last bit rhetorically. If there’s one thing Spencer’s learned in his life, most people don’t actually want to know what goes on in Spencer’s brain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I guess I’ve just been doing it for awhile</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh dang</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Thats impressive</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Thank you</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It ends up taking about twenty two minutes, and although Spencer could figure out the probability of that happening, he doesn’t. Instead, he avoids each of the breaks of concrete on the sidewalk, a habit he’s had for as long as he can remember.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Luke opens the door, Roxy is in tow, looking eager. She’s basically the only dog that feels that way around Spencer, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s a nice reprise from other pets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” Luke greets, holding the door open for him, while keeping a hand on Roxy to ensure she won’t run out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” Spencer replies, just as awkwardly, before turning to Roxy. “Hi, Roxy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She happily wags her tail as a response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Motioning with his free hand, Luke muses, “You can, uh, you can come in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Yeah.” When Spencer finds the same couch cushion as before, he can’t help but want to hit his own head. Even in highschool he wasn’t this awkward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily, Roxy doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice, and quickly sits down next to his legs, tongue hanging out as she begs for pets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want anything to drink? Or water or something else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shakes his head, looking away from the other man’s eyes. “No. I’m okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cool,” Luke notes, before nearly falling into the cushion on the other side of the couch. “Hey so, I’m sorry about last time. I didn’t mean to bring up tons of PTSD things, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Spencer insists. “Besides, it’s like what I texted you earlier. It’s nice hearing it from someone who also understands.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke gives a short chuckle, “Yeah. ‘Sometimes wish I didn’t understand it quite so intimately, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After giving a sympathetic nod, Spencer opens his mouth, but no sounds come out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Spencer nods, looking down at Roxy. She rests her nose on the couch beside Spencer’s thighs, giving him her best puppy eyes. Giving her a few scratches behind her ears, Spencer starts, “I just had- have questions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. About what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer meant to ask about Mexico, he really did. He had all of the words in order, ready to be spit out of his head, but he didn't end up getting that far. “Do you,” Spencer looks up, “Care about me? In a romantic way?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>jjeejJEJEJEJEJE GAY :D</p>
<p>Another thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightTerror/pseuds/BrightTerror">BrightTerror</a> because she puts up with all of my random gay ramblings and is so fucking awesome and honestly this would not be here if it weren't for her so! Go check out her stuff!! Do it!!</p>
<p>Okay that's all for today!! You guys are so fucking awesome and I love you all!! &lt;3 &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Don't You Care?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Luke and Spencer are cute, and Roxy ships it. In other news, Spencer makes some bad decisions...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! Hi! I hope that everyone's holidays are going well!! It's been one hell of a year, but it's almost over- so yay!! </p><p>I had fun writing this chapter, and I hope you all enjoy it!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As soon as Spencer closes his mouth, he wants to smack his head against the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t think that he could be more awkward if he tried. And unfortunately, based on Luke’s face, he must feel the same as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Spencer blurts out, feeling about three seconds away from standing up and leaving. All he wanted to do was ask about Mexico. And now this happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After finding his words again, Luke quickly insists, “Wait- no, don’t apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Spencer nods, brain refusing to remember all of the neurotypical ways to continue a conversation. Is he supposed to ask about the weather now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, to um,” Luke looks down at Roxy, before beginning to give her a few pats. “To answer your question: yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While his mouth snaps closed with an audible clack, Spencer glances up to Luke’s face before quickly looking away. What the fuck is he supposed to do now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, before Spencer can even think about a response, Luke speaks again. “If this makes you uncomfortable, you can leave. I won’t be offended or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m not- do you want me to leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Luke answers, a little too quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pregnant pause before Spencer contributes, “I’ve really only been in one romantic relationship. Maybe two? One and a half.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Okay?” Spencer frowns at Luke’s confused statement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that a problem?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” Luke questions. “Hold on, you’re not- do you want to be in a relationship with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slightly fumbling over his words, Spencer tries to explain, “I thought that was the next logical step?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter what the logical steps are,” Luke counters, “It just matters on whether or not you want to be in a relationship, you know? Like it’s your choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it’s totally okay if you don’t have the same feelings,” Luke quickly adds. “There’s no obligation or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer isn’t completely sure how he should be answering, so he just goes with honesty. “I don’t really know how I’m feeling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Luke points out, “That’s okay. You don’t need to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even with Maeve, I didn’t realize what I was feeling with love. It had been so long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” Luke asks, dreading the answer. “So long since what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a swallow, Spencer answers, “Since I’ve felt romantic love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke knows that his face falls as his heart clenches. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that your track record with romance isn’t exactly… good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he certainly doesn’t disagree, Spencer points out, “But it isn’t your fault. You shouldn’t be apologizing for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s like, a, uh, sympathetic apology.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Spencer nods, finally taking a good look at Luke. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah it’s, no problem,” He smiles back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evidently on a roll, Spencer continues, “I didn’t know what I felt with Ethan for a long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s Ethan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I met him at CalTech,” Spencer replies. “I was in grad school while he had started his undergraduate studies a year early.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curious, Luke questions, “How old were you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fifteen, almost sixteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You went to grad school when you were fifteen?!” All awkwardness forgotten, Luke stares up to Spencer with wide eyes. “How old were you when you went to undergrad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um,” Spencer takes a glance at Roxy, “Twelve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taken aback, Luke murmurs, “Holy shit. I mean, I know you’re a genius, but- whoa.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not exactly knowing how to respond, Spencer just shyly nods. “Yeah,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so you and Ethan…? There were feelings there?” Luke could kick himself. He sounds like the first time he talked to his sister about a crush when he was thirteen, when Dominic Bolton just got transferred into his science class without a lab partner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer answers, “It took me awhile to realize it, and if Ethan didn’t kiss me, I don’t think I ever would’ve. It’s just a feeling that I was so unfamiliar with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you fifteen when he kissed you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightly chuckling, Spencer shakes his head, “No, no. It was over a year after we had met. I was seventeen, Ethan was eighteen. I only realized that I had romantic feelings toward him afterward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke nods for a few seconds, before speaking up, “Well, there’s no rush. Or any rush, to be specific. You don’t have to like me, or anything,” Giving a self-deprecating laugh to himself, Luke mutters, “God, I feel like a middle schooler right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just,” He waves a hand in front of his face, “Fumbling all over my words. As if I’m not some grown adult that works in the FBI.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer gives him a smile. “Well, I fumble over my words all the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luke smiles, “That’s true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you smiling?” Spencer asks, not from judgement, but genuine curiosity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Avoiding the younger man’s eyes, Luke answers, “It’s kinda cute,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is? My inability to speak coherent sentences?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No- well, yes? Yes and no.” Luke settles on, pressing his palm into Roxy’s fur. He’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t even be able to breathe without her here. “It’s kind of endearing, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a confused look, Spencer answers, “No?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobbing his head back and forth, Luke tries to explain, “Well it’s like, I don’t know, it feels like a window to your brain almost. As if you have so many things going through your brain that you can’t even get them out fast enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taken aback by Spencer’s quiet response, Luke quickly asks, “Are you okay? Did I say something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly shaking his head, Spencer replies, “No. No one’s ever said anything like that before. It just caught me off guard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean? Said anything like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People don’t think about why I sometimes can’t get the words out,” Pausing, Spencer furrows his brow, “But you did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Good,” Luke grins. “At least, I think it’s good. That’s good, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a light laugh, Spencer nods, “It’s good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two sit in silence, both sneaking glances at each other and pretending that they don’t notice the other one. Roxy’s absolutely thriving under the attention, tail wagging across the floor as she gets pets from two sides. Any time either of them stop, she’ll look over with her best puppy eyes, begging for more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t last though, and Spencer’s the one to break it. “How did you know you had romantic feelings for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Luke shrugs. “I just sort of knew. Every time I saw you I just got this feeling in my chest. This feeling that just made me never want to continue my life without you in it.” Wincing, Luke murmurs, “Wow, that sounded really cheesy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a bit,” Spencer grins. “But if that’s what you really felt, it’s, I don’t know, sweet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke chuckles again, before continuing, “And after you got hurt in Texas, I just didn’t want to ever see you hurt again. Garcia joked to wrap you up in bubble wrap, and I was seriously considering going through with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luke grins, before it falls a second later. “But I totally understand if you don’t feel the same way. Like I said earlier, I won’t be offended or anything. And I promise I won’t make things weird around you either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer nods. “There are so many feelings in my head right now, and I’ve never been good at deciphering them, let alone dealing with them. It’s been like that for my entire life though, because I’ve been autistic my entire life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...So you don’t know?” Luke questions without malice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how I feel about you, but I don’t know how I feel about everything in the world. I don’t even know how I feel about myself,” Spencer confesses. However before Luke can speak up, Spencer continues, “But I think I’d like to try understanding my feelings for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost comically, Luke’s eyes widen. “Oh. Oh! That’s- that’s a good thing for me, isn’t it?” He laughs, swallowing a noise that he doesn’t really want to make in front of Spencer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Spencer twists his hands around, “It’s a good thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Shit!” Luke happily muses. “Wow, okay. Cool. That’s cool.” Closing his eyes, he groans, “Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m gonna shut up now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a curious look, Spencer questions, “Wait, what? Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I sound like a teenager,” Luke nervously laughs, “Like a teenager with a crush in middle school or something. Not even highschool!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Spencer smiles back. “Don’t feel bad. It’s a genuine reaction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Attempting, and failing, to hide a blush, Luke nods, “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whining for attention, Roxy distracts both of them to get out of their respective heads before anyone can begin overthinking. Mutely, Luke thinks that if his dog had a salary, she definitely deserves a raise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the time Spencer spends with Luke is far less awkward, but still has an air of ‘childhood crush.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that either of them mind, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time Spencer felt like this was when Ethan kissed him, nearly two entire decades ago. And based on the looks Luke keeps sneaking at him, Spencer’s pretty sure that he hasn’t felt it for a long time either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unsurprisingly, when Spencer gets back to the Morgan’s, Derek is waiting expectantly at the door. However surprisingly, Garcia isn’t there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s Garcia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sent her home,” Derek explains, “She kept tryin’ to feed my kid cookies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s a bad thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snorting, Derek replies, “You already know my feelings about that. What happened with Luke?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Figuring there’s no reason to lie, Spencer answers. “You all were right. Luke has romantic feelings for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how does that make you feel?” Derek coaxes on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean,” Spencer bites the inside of his mouth, attempting to hide a smile from appearing. “I certainly don’t dislike it,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aww you like him back!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tease me,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a faux serious face, Derek insists, “I’m not teasing you. After all, it can’t be teasing if it’s the truth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty sure that’s not how it works,” Spencer reports, but still with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, maybe,” Derek laughs. “You hungry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer answers, “Not really. Rossi’s food is very filling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling all too bold after his time with Luke, Spencer suddenly announces, “I think I’m going to take a shower. For real this time. Without a panic attack.” He adds, as if it needed specification.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek takes it all in stride, without making any indication of surprise or disbelief, and Spencer’s grateful for it. “That sounds good. What do you need me to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have any cardboard?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, the answer is yes, and within minutes, the bathroom mirror (which is still ruined because of a spiderweb crack from Spencer’s fist) is covered in cardboard, masking tape holding the ends down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else do you need?” Derek questions, looking ready to move the moon if Spencer asked for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a breath, Spencer answers, “I think I’m good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll call if you need anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Spencer nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re not gonna break any more of my mirrors?” When Spencer gives him an unamused look, Derek just chuckles. “I’m just kiddin, Pretty Boy. Go take a shower. Luke’s not gonna want you smellin’ all gross-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morgan!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly moving out the door, Derek adds one last, “Holler if you need anything!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he’s left, Spencer takes a few more deep breaths, before turning off the light of the bathroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s absolutely fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he doesn’t look at his body, nothing can get him. That’s definitely how it works. Out of sight, out of mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Spencer knew how dirty he was, it’s an entire different feeling when he watches dirt swirl down into the drain. He wonders how anyone has been putting up with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter what he’s doing, even washing his hair, Spencer stays looking straight forward at the tiles, avoiding any chance of seeing his body. Even though he understands that covering his skin never helped him, the feeling is so ingrained that he doesn’t know how to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For now, avoiding his body seems to be the only way to get through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s done, Spencer barely takes the time to dry himself off, getting into clean clothes as quickly as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although the clothes always make his skin itch, it doesn’t compare to the burn he feels when he doesn’t have any armor on. Spencer curls into his clothes, hating that his heart seems to slow down to a normal rhythm once he has clothes on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Logically, he knows it shouldn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However illogically, Spencer feels like he can finally breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Personal hygiene does wonders for sleep, as it turns out, and Spencer’s asleep within minutes he pulls the covers over his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome back!” Lindsey greets, offering a hand to shake, before giving a dramatic grimace. “Oh, right. Still not too fond when it comes to shaking hands, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Choosing to ignore that last statement, Spencer looks around the old house before questioning, “We’re back here again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” She shrugs, “After all, you haven’t figured out enough yet. I’m bored though, so I’ll give you a hint. Look at your hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With nothing better to do, Spencer complies. The scar on his palm has opened up, fresh blood oozing down onto his wrist, down to his elbow. Mezmorized, Spencer spends a few moments simply looking at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this supposed to tell me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you already figured out half of it last time. It’s not a defensive wound, huh Spencer?” She grins, eyes flashing as if she were the devil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Spencer looks up to ask another question, she’s gone. Despite the fact that it’s his dream, Spencer knows that there’s no way he’s going to be able to control her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Spencer mumbles to himself. “It’s from a blade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a crime scene from a kitchen, there’s typically only a few objects that make sense for this type of wound. Certain types of blades from food processors, mandalins, and an average kitchen knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chances are, Spencer didn’t have time to dig around the cabinets for any type of equipment, which means that the wound is probably from the knife. It’s not defensive, which means that Spencer was never the one in danger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, he thinks so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either that, or he was the one in danger, and never moved to protect himself when someone went to attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the back of his head, Spencer remembers Emily and Tara telling him that his fingerprints were on the knife. That’s the part that doesn’t make sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Spencer’s prints were on the knife, he wouldn’t have been hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Uncurling his fingers, Spencer watches as new blood bubbles out before his eyes. On the underside of his hand, right where his first knuckles lay, thin lines of blood pool out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s prints were on the knife because he was holding it. But he was holding it backwards, handle side out, rather than the blade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For him to make a mistake as large and obvious as that, he must’ve been extraordinarily drugged, despite what his subconscious wants him to think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he just has to figure out why he went for the knife. Why he reached for a weapon. He was probably trying to protect himself, but from what?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lindsey? Or something worse?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something must’ve gone down. Something worse than the murder of the woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something that caused Spencer to be frightened enough to not only reach for a knife, but be in such a hurry that he didn’t even notice he was clutching it from the wrong side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s seen murders before, hell, Spencer’s been the one to end lives himself. That’s nothing new. Whatever trauma he went through, it had to have been worse than witnessing someone dying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what’s worse than that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Spencer wakes, he doesn’t feel rested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quite the opposite, actually, which is frustrating, given that he was unconscious for nearly six hours. Instead, he wakes with tired eyes and groggy hands, looking like he’d been awake the entire time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of a strange forming habit, Spencer snatches his phone from the counter, taking a glance at the time before sliding it into his pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Spencer sits down at the table, Derek drops a letter in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barely taking the time to look up, Spencer questions, “What’s this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Came in the mail yesterday,” He explains, “When you were over at Luke’s. Forgot to say anything about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Spencer’s a bit suspicious of his friend, he doesn’t voice any of his concerns. The outside of the envelope and Spencer are intimately familiar with each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bennington buys the same exact stamps month after month, year after year, and even though it’s been decades, the letters Spencer gets back always have the same red bird on them. The only difference is Diana’s handwriting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes it’s curled, just like the way she used to grade papers for her students, and sometimes it’s slanted left, haste stopping her from writing in her usual print.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today, it’s nearly scribbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kneading the edge of the paper between his fingers, Spencer questions, “Is this the only one that’s come?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, Spencer asks, “All of my mail is now being sent here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek frowns. “Everything okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I've sent a letter to my mom every day since I got home. She’s almost always sent them back, responding to each individual one. Even with slow mail, I should’ve gotten at least three by now. And I thought that maybe it was something on Bennington’s end, but now…” Spencer trails off, biting his lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But now that you’ve gotten one letter, you know that nothing in the postal service has gone wrong.” Derek finishes for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s just my mom.” Derek opens his mouth to help soothe his anxieties, but Spencer beats him to it. “I know that schizophrenia and alzhiemers are degenerative illnesses. I do. I just didn’t think that I’d be able to notice it this clearly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek looks at him sympathetically, wishing he could do something to help him. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. This could just be a little blip in-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We both know it’s not.” Spencer interrupts, before neatly tearing open the envelope, effectively ending any possible conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m so glad you’ve written to me! It’s been far too long, darling.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Things are quite the bore here. The only mildly interesting thing happening is the fact that Nurse Rodger has been stealing the lightbulbs. Nobody believes me. Nobody except Sandra, of course.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though he’s just reading her writing, Spencer can nearly hear his mother’s quiet chuckle. It’s more soothing than he thought it’d be.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nurse Rodger barely even works on my floor anymore, though. I assume that his boss finally believed me. Other than him though, everything’s been quite normal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That, and of course the little quintet. You know about that, don’t you, Crash? You know about nearly everything. I always knew that you’d be able to find all of these things out. Ever since you were little.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that Spencer has absolutely no clue what quintet his mother is referring to, he keeps reading.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And now you’re in college! It’s such a mother’s thing to say, but it’s true. You grow up so fast, Spencer. I suppose that must make me an old woman now, but no worries.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ll come visit me soon, won’t you? You still haven’t told me what classes you’re taking these days. And if you’re still on that psychology interest from the last letter you wrote.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I have to say, I’d never expect you to be interested in psychology.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Genetics, sure, I’ve known that since you were eight, but I’m still rather surprised about psychology. Not that I’m disappointed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I could never be disappointed with you, Spencer. You know that, don’t you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When you come visit me you should certainly tell them about Nurse Rodger. I fear that nobody else believes me. I’m used to that, though.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And when you come I’ll tell you all about Sandra. She’s a lovely woman, Spencer, you’ll see. You may need to bring your own light bulbs as well. That damned nurse keeps stealing them all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll save more thoughts to tell you when you arrive in person. There’s no reason to get out my thoughts in writing when I could be talking with you, face to face.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re such a lovely young man, Spencer, you know that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I make sure to tell everyone here about you. I’m always so proud, no matter what. And I also know that you could be the one to get back all of the stolen lights.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s going to start stealing the energy next, I just know it. I haven’t figured out how he’s going to manage it, of course, but it’s going to happen. I’ve always had a knack for knowing these types of things, did you know that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You probably have that knack as well.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But you’ll learn all about that in your genetics studies. I’ve always known that you’d go into genetics, did you know that? A mother knows, Spencer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We’ll talk more when you arrive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Love, Mom</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer didn’t even realize he had started crying until Derek pulls out the chair next to him. “Kid? Is everything okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer replies, letting the paper fall gracefully onto the table so he can use his hands to scrub his eyes. “Everything’s fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s why you’re crying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although part of Spencer wants to stay quiet and wallow in his sadness, he forces his mouth to open and his diaphragm to contract. “She doesn’t even remember the letters I sent her. I don’t even know which one inspired her to reply.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a furrowed brow, Derek questions, “What do you mean? How do you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer gives a shaky breath before reciting, “‘I’m so glad you’ve written to me. It’s been far too long,’ I’ve sent her a letter every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe she’s only gotten around to reading them-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s getting worse.” Spencer interrupts, covering his eyes with his hands. “I was naive to think otherwise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid,” Derek sympathetically sighs, “You can’t know that from a letter. I know it’s hard, but it’s a two page letter. There’s just things we can’t understand from that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can practically see her deteriorating within the letter. If we assume that she’s only writing in her more lucid moments, then-” Spencer cuts himself off with another shaky breath, willing himself to not fall into full on sobs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek’s quiet for a few moments, before attempting, “Kid-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to go,” Spencer swallows, standing up from the table, “Sit outside. I just need a minute.” If there’s one thing Spencer can’t handle right now, it’s communicating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weather is hot, despite the fact that the sun is hidden behind a few dozen clouds. Of course, Spencer probably could’ve deduced that given the month that they’re in, paired with the fact that he lives in the northern hemisphere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weather is hot, and Spencer can focus on that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can focus on the rising sea levels, courtesy of global warming, which in recent years has been changed to be known as “Global Climate Change” to show that it’s not just the same thing as the weather being warmer. Spencer can think about the declining habitats of nearly every natural creature, but those living in the poles even more so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can think about the grass underneath him when he touches it with his palms. He can think about the fact that only certain breeds of grass grow in certain climates, and he can think about the amount of water that’s needed to keep lawns perfectly green, and how unnatural perfectly green lawns are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, he can focus on millions of other subjects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But instead, all Spencer can think about is his mom’s beautiful mind deteriorating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s not completely true, though. He can also think about his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can think about his palm, the way that every individual person has their own unique palm, just like fingerprints. He can think about the fact that he now has an extraordinarily unique palm because of the large scar running alongside it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why would he grab a knife incorrectly?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even drugged, he should’ve known better. Anyone in the world knows how to hold a knife correctly, so it’s really a wonder that Spencer, certified genius, couldn’t hold a knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being drugged is one explanation for it, sure, but that can’t be the only one. Spencer’s been drugged before, hell, Spencer’s drugged himself before, but not once has he ever ignored the danger of sharp objects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even at his worst, back in 2007, Spencer still had part of his head working with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grabbing a knife backwards is ridiculous. For one, it’s difficult to grab a knife that way. The handle is easier to grip, and easier to pull off the floor-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knife was on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer picked up the knife on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have to ask anyone for that fact. In all actuality, chances are nobody would’ve even known that. Which means that there’s only one explanation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer already knew that the knife was on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he didn’t know where the knife was before now, which means that he must’ve been repressing that fact, but that raises the question: what else has he been repressing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How many things from Mexico does he remember without even realizing it? What if he wasn’t even drugged in the first place? There’s certainly a chance that Spencer was just in shock, and wasn’t-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not true. There was a drug test.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Focusing on the facts is the most important thing to do right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The facts are that Spencer was drugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But until a few days ago, Spencer thought that the fact was he couldn’t remember anything because of the drugs. Now though, who knows why he can’t remember anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So really, Spencer can’t rely on facts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s he supposed to do if he can’t fall back onto the truth? It’s something, the only thing, that’s stuck with him throughout his entire life. Cold, hard, facts. The truth. Something that could never be disputed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now he’s sitting here with the knowledge that the drugs didn’t prevent him from remembering what happened. The opposite of the truth he heard from Emily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the concept of repressed memories aren’t facts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s all Spencer is now: a series of debatable clues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t even trust himself. Everything that he knew about Mexico could all be fake. It could’ve all been something he told himself to calm himself down in a cold and empty cell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything, everything could be false.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer hates it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to know what happened, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know what happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s his own life, he has to understand his own life. That’s something that Delilah doesn’t understand, something that not even Rossi would help him with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of them get it. None of them realize how horrific it is to live with a mind that won’t even tell himself the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Spencer knows one person that could help him.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>As someone who has a doctorate in psychology, what are your thoughts regarding repressed memories?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Much to Spencer’s surprise, she texts back almost immediately. It must be before she has any appointments.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I definitely believe that they exist to a degree</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Why?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I thought you basically knew as much as me when it comes to psychology</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Right?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I needed an outside perspective, and you seemed like an ideal candidate</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Okay</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>An outside candidate for what?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Thoughts about getting back repressed memories</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Being able to recover them</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Are you working with a witness or something?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Something like that</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Okay well</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I definitely wouldnt try to recover any memories without a plan</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Theyre probably repressed for a reason</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And if your witness remembers them chances are itll be like traumatizing them all over again</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>That being said theres still a lot we dont know about repressed memories</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Have you ever worked with someone that had repressed memories?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>A. few patients</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I can’t tell you anything about them though</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I know</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Spencer’s thumbs itch to continue, he stops himself from just writing out his thoughts. Most people don’t want to understand Spencer’s raw thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>How did you go about it?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I know that you can’t give any details or anything</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m just looking for a general sense</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>If you’re working with a witness I wouldnt do anything with their repressed memories</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Outside of a professional and controlled environment itd probably be too dangerous</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>What if we didn’t have the opportunity for that?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a long few seconds before Mari replies, only slightly putting Spencer on edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>If this was for a witness you probably wouldnt be able to legally tell me any of this</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>This isnt about a witness is it?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer nearly feels his blood run cold. Physiologically Spencer knows that it’s impossible, but right now it feels like ice is running through his veins.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Spencer?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>A few more moments pass before she writes again,</span>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You said you were on medical leave</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>What happened?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>What happened to put you on medical leave?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath, Spencer forces himself to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>The official reason is because of heat exhaustion</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And the non-official reason?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>That’s what I’m trying to figure out</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Something happened to me</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But I can’t remember</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Something bad enough to put you on medical leave?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Yes</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Do you think you have repressed memories?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I know I have repressed memories</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And I need help uncovering them</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I told you Spencer</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Thats dangerous for your mental state</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>If you already have repressed memories, chances are youve been through something traumatic</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You dont want to force yourself to relieve it</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I need to know what happened</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Why do you need to know?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Because I think something bad happened to me</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>If you truly have repressed those memories, chances are something bad did happen</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I dont know how to make you understand</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But you just dont want to be digging around there</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Your brain is protecting you </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Dont make yourself relive it</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as Spencer wants to listen to his friend’s words, he just can’t. Why doesn’t anyone understand how horrid it is to not know what happened to oneself? Spencer needs to know. Even just for the peace of mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m going to uncover my memories, whether or not I get help</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a low blow, but Spencer doesn’t have any other choice at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>If you help me, I can do it safer than if I did it by myself</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>This is a fucking terrible idea Spencer</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m going to do it no matter what</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Will you help me?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can feel his heart thudding in his chest. Each beat seems to mimic that of an elephant’s, which Spencer thinks he should maybe be concerned about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then finally, nearly an entire minute later, Mari writes back.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Fine</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m in</em>
  </b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>IT HAPPENED! THAT'S RIGHT- IT REALLY HAPPENED!<br/>Ralvez? I mean, yeah, but moSTLY THE FACT THAT SPENCER TOOK A SHOWER!!!! SOUND THE ALARMS IT REALLY HAPPENED, GUYS!! HE S H O W E R E D</p><p>Also shout out to BrightTerror and our weird joke regarding Penelope Garcia, bubble wrap, and Spencer Reid xD</p><p>Words cannot describe how fucking excited I am for what's going to happen when Spencer learns what happened to him in Mexico ohhmyyyygodddd I'm so ready for that! I know exactly how I'm gonna write it, and exactly how it's gonna go down, and it's going to be dramatic as HELL so yay!! I'm curious- what do you guys think will happen when Spencer uncovers his memories of Mexico?</p><p>Also I feel like now would be a good time to say that nothing will be explicit! I can't fucking write that shit, so I can 10000% assure you that nothing will be explicit!</p><p>Have a wonderful day!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. I'm Figuring This Out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Spencer's going to get his memories back, no matter what it takes.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! Hi! First of all: sorry this took so long to get out, I missed you all so much!! For those of you who don't follow me on tumblr, basically what happened was stressful things and then I had another seizure, which was... not fun...</p>
<p>But I'm here now, so yay! Thanks for sticking with me!</p>
<p>Second thing: If you get to a certain point in this chapter and think, "huh wait, this doesn't make sense. wait, when did this happen?" I promise you that a) you're not going crazy and b) I'm not going crazy. A bit of strange things happen this chapter (regarding the reliableness of the narrative), and all of those literary choices were made on purpose, I promise!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Spencer’s absolutely giddy with excitement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Actually, ‘giddy’ might not even be the word that he’d use. It’s probably closer to more of a ‘scatter brained excitement,’ but at the moment, Spencer isn’t too worried about semantics.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because for the first time in nearly a year, Spencer’s going to have answers about what happened to him. It’s an incredible feeling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A mom-shaped hole is still burning it’s way through Spencer’s chest, but he’s even able to push that to the side for the time being. Maybe not all of the way out of his brain, but at least tucked neatly in a corner where he can pretend it doesn’t exist until he has to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Each time he thinks about Diana, Spencer feels his own heart fall further down in his chest, so he forces himself to just. Not. Out of sight, out of mind, right?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek’s unsurprisingly suspicious when Spencer comes back into the house looking rather pleased with himself, given the reason why he left in the first place. That, paired with the fact that Spencer’s never been able to mask his emotions, the younger man prepares himself for the questioning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It never comes, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By some insane turn of events, Derek doesn’t question what happens, and Spencer is all too grateful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quietly nibbling on cereal, Spencer listens to Derek and Savannah talk in hushed tones about Hank before she leaves for the ER, and Spencer pretends that it’s not eavesdropping. They’re nearly in the same room. In fact, it’d be harder to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> hear them at this point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s appetite doesn’t appear, no matter how far into the cereal bowl he gets, and just when he’s preparing to explain himself to Derek, Hank saves the day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seemingly oblivious from the tensions around him, Hank looks up and questions his uncle, “Play blocks?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning his attention away from the other adults, Spencer asks, “Right now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmhm,” Hank confirms, reaching his arms up to be taken down from his high chair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Derek has finished talking with his wife, Spencer and Hank are in deep conversation regarding the biggest tumble of blocks, and Derek can’t bring himself to interrupt. As if sensing this, Spencer tries his best to stay engaged with Hank so Derek can’t find an opening to question him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It somehow ends up working. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke texts him later in the day, and Spencer takes that opportunity to leave the house, successfully avoiding his best friend. He’ll feel guilty about it later, now isn’t the time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke greets the door with Roxy and a smile, but it falls the second he sees Spencer. “Hey- whoa. You okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Self-consciously looking down at his clothes, Spencer nods, “Yes. Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No offense,” Luke starts, which always sets off warning bells in Spencer’s mind. Throughout the years, when someone starts with that, they usually mean offense. “But you kinda look like you’ve been crying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” Spencer elaborately replies. “Well. I have been.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ushering him in, Luke questions, “Shit, are you okay? Did something happen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pauses, but eventually feels safe enough to continue to the couch, where he opens his mouth. “I got a letter from my mom.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is she okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinking his fingers into Roxy’s fur, Spencer takes a breath. “She’s the same.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quietly nodding, Luke drops down into the cushion on the other side of the couch, just like the previous two times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The third time makes it a pattern. Spencer likes patterns. More than he thinks he ought to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be,” Spencer mumbles into Roxy’s face, rather than facing the other half of the conversation. “Schizophrenia is a degenerative disease,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Listening to Spencer trail off, Luke prompts, “I’m hearing a ‘but’...?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As far as coordinating conjunctions,” Spencer awkwardly starts, “An ‘and’ would fit better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke pauses for a moment, taking a bit of time to digest the information that Spencer can just instantly make connections to. “Oh. That’s… not a good thing for this situation, is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shakes his head. “Schizophrenia is a degenerative disease. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>early onset dementia often develops into Alzheimer's.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Luke softly notes, and Spencer certainly couldn’t agree more. “Do- are they- do you know for sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Spencer swallows. “But in the letter, you can,” Breaking up his words with a breath, Spencer continues, “You can tell that she’s getting worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keeping his eyes trained on Roxy, Spencer replies, “It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t apologize.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sympathetic apology,” Luke explains with a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t need to apologize either,” Luke points out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although he nods, Spencer tries, “I probably should’ve known that the apology was sympathetic based on the context.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t mind explaining it to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Spencer genuinely replies, giving Luke a quick smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke’s smile, on the other hand, lingers for a few seconds. “Yeah. It’s… no problem.” It’s only a few seconds later that he suddenly speaks up, “Do want any water? My mom always had me drink water after crying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pushes away the thought that his mom had never done that. “Sure.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want ice?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s okay,” Spencer shakes his head, before putting all of his focus onto Roxy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks back up at Spencer, eyes grateful for the attention she’s getting. When Spencer begins to pet her in earnest, she wags her tail on the floor, creating a nice, </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump thump thump</span>
  </em>
  <span> noise, muffled from the carpet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After setting a glass of water on the coffee table, Luke grins at the two of them. “I swear I give her attention all day. You wouldn’t even know it though, based on how she’s acting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lip curling up, Spencer questions, “Is she like this with everyone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bobbing his head from side to side for a second, Luke answers, “Basically everyone. But there’s always people on the extremes. I had a friend a couple years ago who Roxy wouldn’t trust, even after months of seeing him.” Luke shrugs, and then motions to Spencer, “But then there are people like you, who she instantly takes a liking to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah,” Luke nods. “I mean the first time you came over Roxy was already determined to make you love her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a quiet laugh, Spencer confirms, “She’s definitely got that down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She really does have that effect on people,” Luke grins back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two sit in silence for a few minutes, but unlike other silences, it doesn’t put Spencer on edge. It’s comfortable, more comfortable than he thought it could be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke’s the first one to break it. “Hey, so, um, Garcia said you liked Dr. Who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dropping his face from shyness, Spencer confirms, “I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wanna watch some? I have the Rose episodes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the fact that he’s nearly brushing on 40 years old, Spencer can feel a blush rise in his cheeks. “Yeah. I mean, as long as you don’t mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would I mind? I asked,” Luke jokes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer looks back down at Roxy. “I- that’s obvious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the fact that both of them feel like bumbling idiots, it only takes a few minutes to get an episode on. Even Roxy ends up turning around, as if she understands what’s appearing on the screen in front of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe she does. There’s a lot that humans don’t know about their own brain, let along one of a canine. There’s probably a good chance that the episode is entertaining her as well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer isn’t exactly sure when it happened, but one second he’s watching the Doctor run around a mall in London, and the next second Lindsey is standing in front of him, looking as bored as ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jerking as soon as his eyes settle on her, Spencer questions, “Why are you here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m part of your brain, Spencer,” She obnoxiously replies. “I’m always ‘here.’ I’m always with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grimacing, Spencer expands, “I meant at this moment. I’m supposed to be-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Linsdey interrupts, “Conscious? You’re really doing a bang-up job of that, Spencer. Now c’mon. I’m here, you may as well make use of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a scoff, Lindsey questions, “‘No’? Fine. Then wake yourself up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Using all of the spite storied up in his body, Spencer stares daggers at her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what I thought,” She replies, grinning at her victory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer takes a step back. “Wait,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What now?” She grumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was supposed to meet in a motel.” Who he was supposed to meet has evidently skipped his mind. “This is a house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scoffing, Lindsey questions, “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re asking me about it? When have I ever been helpful regarding your memory questions? Figure it out yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did we drive here?” Spencer frowns, looking at his hands as if they hold the memory. “Or were we moved without our power?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said deal with it yourself,” Linsdey mutters, before pulling an item from behind her. “Hey Spencer,” When he looks up, she throws out the object, “Catch!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Spencer can stop himself, instincts take over, and he reaches out his right hand to catch it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a knife. Blade side landing right in his palm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few feet in front of him, Lindsey is failing at keeping in a laugh. “Just like old times! Am I right, Spencer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer drops the knife before he can even register what’s happening, causing Lindsey to laugh more. He much preferred it when she would disappear after the few moments of dreaming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waving her hand, she requests, “Now go on. Start remembering. Oh wait,” She cuts herself off, sounding thoroughly pissed off. “You’re probably gonna stop humoring me because the good doctor Mari is now helping, is that right? Am I not good enough, Spencer?” She questions, leaning forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the fact that he wants to stand his ground, Spencer takes a step back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You had to go out and find another girl to help you remember? Is that what this is?” Before Spencer can even reply, Lindsey’s lashing out with her words. “I helped you remember your hand! And you want to know who made you remember the knife? Me. That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>me,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Spencer. Not that other bitch!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dropping his head into his palms (ignoring the fact that only one of them is blood free), before murmuring, “You’re just a part of my brain. A piece of my subconscious, you shouldn’t even be able to feel jealousy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And yet here we are,” Lindsey reports with an annoyed sigh. “If you weren’t so damn impatient, I could’ve gotten you back all of your memories.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then help me understand!” Spencer exasperatedly begs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s too late for that, Spencer!” She nearly screams back, taking a step forward. “You’re on your own now. I’m not gonna protect you from any of this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even more confused than how he started, Spencer questions, “Protect me from what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking around, Spencer's mouth falls open a few centimeters from shock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s seen crime scenes before. Hell, his entire job revolves around the ability to understand and pick apart crime scenes. But this just feels so different than any other crime scene he’s ever seen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, the ground beneath him doesn’t feel real. The walls look fake, and the sun streaming through the windows looks like a prop on The Truman Show.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However the main thing he sees is a million times worse. Something that’s barely quantifiable, that’s how horrific it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer knows that he was found next to a dead woman.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was never told how horrifying she looked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The blood pooling around her goes from a small puddle to a pond, to a lake, and if that growth rate continues, Spencer’s knows that within thirty minutes he’ll easily be swimming through the viscous liquid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It makes him sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ruining the crime scene in front of him, Spencer turns to the side to vomit, absolutely terrified at the character in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pool of blood continues to grow, and even when Spencer steps back, his shoes still sink into it, making a sick </span>
  <em>
    <span>squelsh</span>
  </em>
  <span> noise. His bloody footprints track, and just as nausea rises again, he’s struck with an idea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the amount of blood here, whoever else was here, presumably Lindsey, would’ve also tracked blood across the floor. With that information, Spencer can make a map of where she stepped after the murder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never gets that far.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop, stop!” A voice nearly cries, “It’s just Roxy! Spencer!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathless, Spencer looks to his side, where his fingers are trembling in Roxy’s fur.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the amount of panic he feels right now, his dream feels like a kiddie ride in Disney Land. It takes Spencer a long few gasping moments until he even realizes where he is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as the world computes around him, Spencer pushes his back against the edge of the couch, inching away from Roxy as far as he can get. Evidently not understanding, Roxy just follows, placing her paw on the side of Spencer’s thigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing Spencer’s panicked face, Luke quietly asks from a few feet away, “She’s trying to ground you. Do you want her off?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer has no idea what he wants, but the idea of Luke coming closer to him sends his spine into a shiver, so he shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Half on his lap, Roxy continues to put her paw on his thigh, pressure increasing every so slightly. Intermittently, she looks at Spencer, as if gauging his reactions. She’s smart enough that she probably is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the corner of his eye, Spencer can see Luke busy himself with the absolute brilliance of the seam where the floor meets the carpet, keeping his eyes on everything but his guest. Spencer’s grateful for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After nearly five minutes, Spencer brushes his hands through Roxy’s fur, feeling the edges of her spine through skin and muscle. Patient as ever, Roxy doesn’t move or shy away from his touch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the most contact he’s had with a living being in well over a year.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathlessly, Spencer murmurs, “I should leave,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning to face him, Luke quickly argues, “You don’t have to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “I- I should, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to leave every time you feel anxious,” The other man points out. Quickly covering his tracks, Luke adds, “I mean, unless you’d feel better leaving. But you don’t have to. I understand. I get it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shakes his head. “I’m going to go back home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Luke nods, “Do you want a ride?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I just- uh- I’m going to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With barely enough time for either one of the men to blink, Spencer’s already out the front door, hinges squeaking when the door slides shut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking down to his beloved dog, Luke scratches his ears and soothes, “He’ll be okay, Rox.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The worst part is, Luke doesn’t know who he’s trying to make feel better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although to be fair, he isn’t making much of an effort to do so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every time his eyes drift close, Spencer forces them back open, seeing the shadows in the guest bedroom of the Morgan household. From outside, street lamps are able to reach their skinny fingers through the fibers of the curtain, creating splotches of paranoia.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of Spencer wonders if this is how his mother feels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A million things can go wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And his damned jackets never helped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a determination that Spencer can’t quite place, he tears off layer after layer until there’s only one left. It’s summer, he doesn’t need it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s emotionally stable, he doesn’t need it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the spot right behind Spencer’s eyes, he can nearly hear Lindsey’s scoffs. It’s unsettling, to say the least. But at least something other than his own thoughts are there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then again, this Lindsey is just a manifestation of his own thoughts, so maybe not. Not for the first time, Spencer wonders what the real Lindsey Vaughun is doing. He wonders what she’s thinking while she’s in a 10x10 cell. If she drapes her fingers around the bars just light the light does around the curtains.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everywhere he goes, prison follows him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Embracing it, Spencer closes his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lives in a physical prison, so why not bring it back to his internal conflict? Although that would insinuate that it ever left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The body is still there, the body of a woman Spencer knows he must know, but this time, Lindsey isn’t standing over her. In fact, she’s nowhere to be found.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Double checking, Spencer looks over both of his shoulders, turning in a 360 just to ensure that she’s not lurking in the shadows. All of his thoughts seem to like shadows, so there’s no reason why Lindsey shouldn’t be the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unlike earlier, the puddle of blood isn’t growing. The radius and circumference stays the same, even as the blood begins to dry and crust over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing his rising nausea, Spencer gently turns her over. Much to his disappointment, it doesn’t help him remember who this woman is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It does, however, give Spencer the cause of death. Although he’s read it in redacted reports, he knows that the woman he was found with was stabbed to death. Knife puncturing organs as she bled out, merely feet away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This isn’t new news for him. But maybe it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The knife lays on the floor, nearly asking Spencer to pick it up. Spencer wonders how much of the blood on the blade is his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a few steps around the environment, Spencer takes note of a few key features. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The front door is unlocked, but all of the windows are held tightly closed. Rather than just being latched, Spencer can clearly see twine wrapped around the handles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s obvious how Lindsey got in and out of the house. But the real question is why the windows were locked closed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Actually, there are quite a few questions that Spencer isn’t able to answer. The worst part of it all is that they all come from his own head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels like his thoughts are swirling around like a fine stew.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Each of his brain cells firing electrical charges, softening the gray matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, slowly stirring in his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blood red falls into the tiles in the kitchen, and Spencer watches as they turn into squares, into circles, into hexagons, into shapes he doesn’t even know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of this makes sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lindsey isn’t even here to help make any of this real. Not that she’s real either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s not real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of this is real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of it except for the dead body at his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His shoes are suffocating his toes. Below them is blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crusted at the side, goopy in the middle, and liquid in the epicenter. Spencer knows exactly how long it takes for blood to dry, and the things to add into the equation based on the environment and amount of blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On a good day, Spencer would know how to calculate how long he’s been standing here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today is not a good day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If there’s one thing Spencer knows for sure, it’s that today is not a good day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Da-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking up, Spencer rubs a hand over his face, trying to not pay attention to the fact that Delilah is giving him a concerned look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer tries his best to remember what she was asking about. Or even what went on the past few hours. He doesn’t exactly remember much. “Think about what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About being able to take showers every other day. What are your thoughts? Doable?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer confirms, “I think it’s doable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Did you use any of the tips I recommended?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what?” Spencer questions with a frown.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For taking a shower. Such as covering the mirrors-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Spencer interrupts, turning his palms over. “Yeah. I covered the mirror and turned off the lights. That’s okay, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly assuring him, Delilah nods, “Of course that’s okay. As long as you’re taking care of your hygiene, I don’t really care how it happens.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Other than a quick smile and nod, Spencer doesn’t know how to respond. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily, Delilah picks up the slack. “In general, how have the past few days been for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Forcing his eyes to focus, Spencer slowly answers, “Good. They’ve been good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you had any panic attacks, or any times of increased anxiety?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer thinks about nearly running to the backyard after reading his mom’s letter, breath tight in his chest. Spencer thinks about Roxy’s paws desperately trying to wake him up, thoughts lost in terror. “Not anything in particular, no.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Delilah looks a bit suspicious, she still smiles at him. “I’m very glad to hear that. What about average anxiety? At any given moment, how bad has it been?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sucking in a breath, Spencer lets the exhale ride out for nearly ten seconds. “About the same, honestly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Scale of one to ten?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Three? Maybe a four?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah hums, but doesn’t ask him to expand on it. It would be obvious to even someone who’s not a profiler that she doesn’t believe Spencer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t blame her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How have you been feeling about work, specifically not being able to,” She adds, as if it wasn’t clear enough for Spencer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It hasn’t been too bad,” Spencer honestly answers. “Then again, the team has yet to be called in on a case.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Writing something down, Delilah questions, “How often does the team usually get a case?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Depends,” Spencer shrugs. “Some months it feels like we’re just getting back to back cases, and other times we have weeks in between. I can tell you the probability for a case occurring after x amount of days without one, if you’d like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah lets out a little laugh, before answering, “Although I am curious, I don’t think I’d be able to understand an equation that well. Math was never my strong suit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not exactly knowing how to answer, Spencer just nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think it’s going to be harder for you after the team gets called out on a case?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Spencer answers. “I guess so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Or do you think it’ll be relieving to not have to work these serious cases?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’ve barely missed any cases before, so I don’t have a baseline for emotions about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Without worrying about something to base it off of,” Delilah starts, “Just the first thing that comes into your mind, how do you think you’d feel if the team went on a case without you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer takes a few seconds to digest the question. “Uncomfortable?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And why that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not sure,” He answers, looking down at the scar on his palm. “When I was in prison it just felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> not working on cases with the team.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without missing a beat, Delilah asks, “Was your time in prison the only time you missed cases?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although he doesn’t need to, Spencer gives a few seconds as if he’s thinking. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There haven’t been any times from medical leave? I got the report from the psychologist in Dallas, and according to that you’ve been in the hospital for some pretty serious injuries. They just let you go back in the field?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Avoiding her eyes, Spencer confirms, “Yes. The reports probably exaggerated the injuries,” He adds, feeling fidgety.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been shot twice, correct?” After Spencer’s nod, Delilah continues, “And you went back to the field fairly quickly after those?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Spencer nods, turning his hands over once more. “Almost immediately.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah hums, but doesn’t expand on that topic. “Are you worried about your team going on cases without you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the shake of his head, Spencer replies, “Not really. I know that they’re perfectly capable of handling things without me. After all, they did fine while I was in prison.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It sounds to me like you don’t consider yourself an important part of the team.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer gives her a look. He’s beginning to remind himself why therapists have never been his favorite. “That’s not true. I still consider myself an important part of the team.” Then, with a frown, Spencer questions, “Why are you asking about this? About cases without me, why that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Delilah puts her pad of paper down, Spencer knows he’s in for the long haul. “I think that we should think about extending your medical leave past the original month.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Doing his best not to sputter, Spencer points out, “But it’s barely been two weeks,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you’ve just started to be able to handle showers,” Delilah points out. “I know that your anxiety hasn’t been the best lately, Spencer. I want to help you, but I believe that working cases isn’t going to help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s still time,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There is,” Delilah nods. “But I wanted to say something now, so it doesn’t come as a surprise in two weeks if you’re not ready to go back to work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer takes half a shuddering breath before questioning, “What would I need to do in order to get back in the field?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not so much as what you need to be able to do,” Delilah starts, “But what you can safely handle.” Before Spencer can ask to expand, Delilah continues, “I have no doubt in my mind that you wouldn’t be an excellent profiler if I sent you back in to work right now, but it wouldn’t be safe for your mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to be adding trauma on top of some that you haven’t even coped with yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oblivious of Spencer’s thoughts, Delilah points out, “Even though you may not realize it,  every time you work cases with people who have died rather horrific deaths, it puts a toll on your health. If you truly have been working every case since you began, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to take a break.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still ignoring the point he knows Delilah is trying to make, Spencer tries, “But I’ve been able to handle it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a quick breath, Delilah leans forward. “I know this is hard to hear Spencer, but you honestly haven’t been. Your coping mechanisms have not only gotten dangerous, but at this point, have also stopped helping you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks away at the wall, wishing that he could’ve ignored that last comment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I know that this may seem like a terrible thing for you, but when your homemade support system crumbled down a few weeks ago, it finally gave you an opportunity to work through these things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, Spencer concludes, “So I’m not going back in the field any time soon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At the moment? No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the fact that he’s aware that he wears his emotions on his face, Spencer doesn’t bother to make an effort to hide his disappointment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least when Delilah sighs and apologizes, “I’m sorry, Spencer,” She sounds genuine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not an hour later, when Spencer sits outside on the grass, Spencer thinks about all of the memories that led him here. All of the memories that he can’t actually remember.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer looks to the side, Derek is sitting next to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unlike the younger profiler, Derek has his legs stretched out, grass poking out from the sides of his thighs and calves. His face is pulled into a frown, and Spencer doesn’t even know why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two make eye contact for a few seconds before Derek speaks up. “How’re you feeling, kid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m,” Spencer swallows, before settling on, “Good. Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been real space-y lately,” Derek answers. “What’s goin’ on in that brain?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking at the clouds near the horizon, Spencer shrugs. “I don’t know. I wish things could just go back to normal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a good natured laugh, Derek points out, “You’re pretty far from ‘normal,’ kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Spencer gives a short smile back, “As normal as I get. I wish I could go back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s no point wishing for the past. It ain’t ever coming back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.” Spencer looks back down at the grass. “I just can’t help but wish for it, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a deep sigh, Derek nods, “Yeah, I get that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence drapes over them like a quilt, and Spencer doesn’t have the strength to end it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily, Derek does. “You want to talk about it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Talk about what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever’s goin’ on up there,” Derek replies, nodding to Spencer’s head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not sure what’s going on in there.” Comes the honest response. “I wouldn’t even know what to talk about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek shrugs. “You could start with what went on in your therapy appointment that just shut you down,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Making his own connections inside is head, Spencer announces, “I’ve only had one job, save for TA’ing in grad school.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not quite understanding, Derek coaxes, “Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve worked at the BAU my entire life. I don’t even know what else I’d do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s goin’ on?” Derek frowns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Picking a blade of grass, Spencer admits, “Delilah thinks that I should wait even longer before going back into work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you don’t want to.” Derek concludes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s what I’ve always done,” Spencer answers the unspoken question with a shrug. “I’m not even sure what to do with myself if I’m not working at the BAU.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek gives him a strange look that Spencer can’t decipher. “Is that what’s bugging you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Spencer exasperatedly answers. “I’m not sure what’s going on with me. I just,” Spencer lets out a huff of frustration. “I don’t understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re always going to have a home with the BAU, you know that, right?” Derek soothes. “No matter when, or even if you go back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unable to respond, Spencer just swallows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re always gonna have us, whether or not you want it,” The older man continues with a grin. “We’re always gonna be family.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just want to go back. I want things to be normal again, before anything changed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek frowns. “Before what changed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t even know,” Spencer admits, grabbing a few blades of grass between his fingers, part of him wishing that it was Roxy’s fur instead. “Things just don’t feel right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll be okay, kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shovels ash and prison eggs into his mouth for dinner, watching Hank’s peas go soaring through the air. Plastic sporks and flimsy forks rise over his head like a mobile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Socks slide along the wooden floor as his fingers rake across the drywall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer finally settles down into his bed, it feels like no time has passed at all. Because really, it hasn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time has never quite existed for him or Diana, ever since the ‘80s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling his socks off his ankles and off his heels and off the arches of his feet and off the balls of his feet and off his toes, Spencer pulls a blanket over him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pushes the blanket off of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer watches as the clock ticks backwards, a steady </span>
  <em>
    <span>tock tick, tock tick.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone sits in his hand the same way a cement brick sits tied to a traitor’s ankles at the bottom of the dock. The screen lights up like the first time Mari’s pen reflected off of the lights in the library.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer stretches his shoulders, neck hurting from staring hunched over at his phone for so long. It hasn’t actually been that long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been negative time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s never been one to follow the rules, so why should his brain? Why should the world around him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few inches of twine find themselves snaking over to the windows, but Spencer isn’t bothered by it. The sun’s rays fall at the same time the street lamps’ grow, and Spencer’s sure that time hasn’t passed at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he sleeps, Lindsey isn’t there to greet him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he wakes, Maeve isn’t there to greet him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he sleeps again, Lindsey still isn’t there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he wakes again, Maeve still isn’t there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s been awake the entire time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone sits in his hand, and Spencer waits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been waiting since midday when Mari texted him, after his therapy appointment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been waiting since he didn’t tell Derek who had texted him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been waiting for his entire life, which hasn’t been any time at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer stretches his neck and shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pushing his socks over his toes, over the balls of his feet, over the arches of his feet, over the heel, and over his ankles, Spencer pushes the blanket off of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pulls the blanket over him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time resets, and Spencer’s left looking out the window at every car headlight burning into his retinas. Reflections off of the stop sign remind Spencer of something, but he isn’t exactly sure what it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of Spencer wants to get some sleep, but the other part is far too excited for the world to start turning again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So instead, he lies staring up at the ceiling, headlights catching his eyes and burning into his retinas. He’s been here before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Either that or he’s going to be here soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time has never been one of Spencer’s strong suits. He feels a bit like Diana, time swirling around his brain as memories pretend to not exist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The clock on Spencer’s phone doesn’t tick, but it still changes every minute, on the minute. Ever hour, on the hour.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>change every second, on the second.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But that’s okay, Spencer has never cared much for seconds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone lights up, screen illuminating a broken face covering a broken mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Hey sorry</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Appointments ran late and my kids didnt want to believe that bedtime is a thing</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can certainly relate. Time honestly doesn’t seem to bear any weight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Theres still time for you to change your mind you know</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I still stand by the fact that this is a horrible idea</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>And i really think you shouldnt press this</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>You and I both know I haven’t changed my mind</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>M. Stein → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Cant blame a girl from trying</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Free to call?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → M. Stein</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Yes</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer answers before the first ring has even begun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey,”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You ready?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:)</p>
<p>Before you start throwing rotten fruit at me, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for sticking with me, despite my absence!</p>
<p>I love you all so much &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I Wish I Never Dreamt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Everyone in Spencer's life scrambles to try and help him, even when none of them seem to have the answer.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi friends! I wrote half of this chapter after a panic attack lmao please enjoy</p><p>oh but first tw: allusions to domestic abuse, and allusions to what will eventually be sexual assault but as always, nothing, absolutely NOTHING is explicit, and it never will be. This is more of a "blink and you'll miss it" situation when it comes to the actual event. In fact, unless you know what happened, there's not much evidence in this chapter. If you have more questions, DM me on tumblr, or better yet, just don't read it if you think it's gonna be triggering! Your health is always more important</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Hotch has never been a heavy sleeper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stemming from childhood with a drunk dad and a younger brother to protect, transforming into SWAT on call, and ending with the BAU, he’s always had to get up at a moment’s notice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a skill that he hadn’t even considered useful for the past few years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, when the doorbell rings at 4:52, Hotch has never been more grateful for his ability to jump out of the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Letting out a quiet curse, Hotch quietly walks over to his son’s room, years of catching serial killers putting his nerves on edge. Hotch eyes his gun safe on the way over, but doesn’t make a move towards it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sleep muddling his voice, Jack questions, “Who’s at the door? What time is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s old enough that Hotch knows he shouldn’t lie. Especially given the fact that he’s been in witsec twice. “I don’t know yet. Stay in here and stay quiet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, Jack agrees, “‘Kay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through years of habit, Hotch unlocks his gun safe, pulling out his personal weapon, but keeping the safety on. He can hear Jack’s quiet breathing when he looks through the peephole on the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shoulders immediately dropping, Hotch turns to call out, “Jack, it’s safe,” Before opening the door. “Spencer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no recognition in the younger man’s eyes of his name, or even of his old Unit Chief. He just looks blank. Empty. Thinking back, the last time Hotch saw his youngest agent like this was after Dowd and Hankel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That thought alone is… unsettling, to say the least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From behind him, Jack speaks up, “Dad? What’s going on? Why’s Uncle Spencer here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not exactly wanting his youngest agent to be on display, Hotch halfway turns to reply, “Can you go call Aunt Emily?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know her number,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly putting his weapon back in the gun safe, Hotch directs, “Just use my phone. She’s in the contacts under ‘Prentiss.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not without a bit of attitude, Jack answers, “I know her last name, dad,” Before turning on his heel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frowning at the fact that Spencer still hasn’t said anything, Hotch tries again. “Spencer? Reid? Can you tell me what’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only response he gets is a full body shake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, Hotch tries to lead him in, “Why don’t you come inside,” but stops, as soon as Spencer jerks as if a hot coal had just touched him. At least he showed some sort of recognition from the world around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a step back, Hotch waits until Spencer makes a move forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know what the Jewel Game is,” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Without missing a beat, Mari points out, “It’s actually called KIM now, you know.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Just start.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, you really shouldn’t be doing this,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer’s exasperated, tired of hearing the same thing over and over again. “Mari, we’ve been over this. I know the risks.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mari.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fine.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“We’ll start with olfactory memories. Even though I know you have an eidetic memory for visuals, smell is one of the most powerful types of memories.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“How do I start?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What’s the last thing you remember, before everything goes blank?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding out the phone, Jack reports, “Aunt Emily says she wants to talk to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch has barely put the glass to his ear when Emily’s voice comes through, “Hotch, why the fuck are you calling me at this ungodly hour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you?” He questions, cutting straight to the chase.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why do you- I’m in Montana. It’s not even four fucking AM. What’s going on?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch frowns. “Why are you in Montana?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily’s scoff echoes through the older man’s ear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“For my fucking job? You know, the one in the FBI?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’s Spencer not with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Because-”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Emily suddenly stops herself, and Hotch can nearly hear her frown. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Wait, how do you know Spencer’s not with us?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he’s in my living room,” He barks out, “Having- fuck, having a panic attack,” Barely pulling it away from his ear, Hotch requests, “Jack, take the phone,” Before doing standing near Spencer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even feet away, Hotch can hear Emily’s voice come through the speaker, but he tries to ignore it for the time being. “Hey, Spencer,” He quietly soothes, “Why don’t you go sit down on the couch, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost mechanically, Spencer makes his way in front of a cushion, before his knees wobble, leading his body into a free fall for a millisecond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wincing at his popping knees when he crouches down, Hotch coaches, “Let’s take some deep breaths, okay? Remember, just like we used to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer stares at a spot above Hotch’s shoulder, not even blinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s breathe in for four seconds, okay?” He coaches, before taking in an exaggerated breath himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad, Aunt Emily said she wants to talk with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without turning to face Jack, Hotch quietly answers, “Tell her I can’t right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s pretty insistent,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just,” Hotch turns for a fraction of a moment, “Give me a minute,” Before settling his eyes back on Spencer. “Let’s take a slow breath out, ‘kay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daaaad,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giving a half hearted prayer to a God he doesn’t believe in for patience, Hotch replies, “Jack, I really can’t-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aunt Emily said-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just put it on speakerphone. That’s right, Spencer. Just really, really slowly. Done this a million times before, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A second later, Emily’s staticy voice comes through. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Hotch.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch takes another exaggerated breath in, mostly for Spencer, but in part for himself. “Emily. What’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Is Spencer okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he wants answers, he’s certainly glad that she cuts to the important part. “He’s,” Hotch lets out a tired sigh, “I think so. I can’t really tell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a noncommittal noise on the other end of the phone before Emily questions, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“How many layers is he wearing?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll explain later. Just- how many layers is he wearing?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Rubbing a tired hand over his eyes, Hotch replies, “I don’t know- two, maybe? He was out in the middle of the night though, so- why is this important?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It just is.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Before Hotch can ask any more questions, Emily’s already asking on of her own. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Is he hurt?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that I can see, no. Just keep taking those deep breaths, okay, Spencer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s dry. Really, really dry. As if I could smell the dryness.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tell me what else makes it feel dry,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer winces when he opens his mouth, “My lips are cracked. Bleeding in the corner.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What does the blood taste like?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s gross,” He honestly answers. “It tastes like old pennies and salt.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What else feels dry?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My fingers. They feel rough. And dehydrated. I’m dehydrated.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the side of the couch, Jack catches Hotch’s attention. “Is he okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Hotch nods, as if willing it into existence. “Spencer’s gonna be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s clear that although his son believes him, he still has his doubts. “Why’s he doing that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spencer’s helping himself feel better. He’s stimming, because he’s autistic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hotch,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Emily’s voice comes through the phone, bringing Hotch back from any memories he had a chance of diving into. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You need to call Morgan.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“They’ve been living together for the past few weeks,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Spencer, keep breathing, okay?” Hotch shakes his head to himself. “Emily, what the hell happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, miles and miles away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s not my story to tell.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As if thinking of his own story, Spencer’s right fist suddenly winds up for a punch into his thigh. Hotch is already moving before Spencer repeats the process again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between strikes, Hotch puts one of his couch pillows over Spencer’s legs, wincing when the younger man brings down his fist even harder. “Hey, c’mon. There are better things to do than that, you know this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch frowns when Spencer doesn’t make any indication that he’s in the mood to stop, but lets it go for now. At least with the extra padding he’s not going to hurt himself. “Let’s just continue taking some deep breaths, okay? You’re safe here. You’re safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hotch I’m gonna hang up so you can call Morgan. Keep me in the loop?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> After his quick confirmation, the phone falls silent, making the five AM breakdown even more eerie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jack, can you call-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Already picking up the phone, the kid confirms, “Uncle Derek? Yeah, I got it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the third ring, Hotch is half convinced that Derek won’t pick up. Luckily, right as fourth begins, he hears Derek’s tired voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hotch? ‘The hell’s going on?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cutting straight to the chase, he answers, “Spencer’s in my living room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All evidence of sleep instantly dissipates from the other man’s voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Shit- wait- what the fuck? How?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no clue,” Hotch answers, as he hears soft walking through the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mother- he’s not in his room. When the hell did he leave?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t,” Hotch pauses when he stops hearing the thump thump of Spencer hitting his thighs, relieved when he sees the stim has changed to rocking. “Know. He showed up at my doorstep five minutes ago and hasn’t said a word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Is he hurt?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Letting a little scoff out, Hotch replies, “Physically? Not that I can see.” Frowning, he corrects himself, “Well, actually, possibly his feet? He’s only wearing socks,”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He’s probably fine, wearing three pairs,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Derek mumbles under his breath. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll be there in twenty.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Both of them know that the Morgan house is easily thirty minutes away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Do you taste anything?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s,” Spencer frowns, biting the inside of his mouth. “It’s not really a taste. My mouth just feels… stale?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Okay,” Mari notes, “What do you hear?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Without having to think twice, Spencer easily answers. “Birds. Small, I’ve heard them before. Sparrows? Bluebirds, maybe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Good. Do you hear anything else?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Car. No, cars. There are a lot of them. They don’t sound like small cars.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a hum on the other end. “When you open your eyes, what do you see?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch has since pulled up a chair to sit directly across from Spencer, and attempted to convince Jack to go to bed. So far, none of his plans are going well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Hotch requests, “If you’re staying awake, you’re gonna be helping, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you get me a glass of water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Jack confirms, “Uh huh,” Before scurrying off to the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Spencer’s breathing has finally improved from near-hyperventilation, nothing else is going much better. “Spencer? ‘Think you can look up at me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much to his disappointment, but not surprise, Spencer doesn’t make any indication that he’s heard the older man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Jack comes back, Hotch takes the glass from him. “Do you want to try drinking any water?” He can’t help the frown on his face fall deeper when there’s still no response. With a quiet sigh, Hotch sets down the glass beside him, trying not to think about the last time Spencer drank any water or ate any food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The younger man continues stimming, which is at least a bit of a comfort for Hotch. It’s certainly an improvement to the completely catatonic state Spencer was in when he arrived. And Hotch will take rocking over hitting any day of the week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he’s stimming, he’s in there somewhere. Where though, Hotch thinks he’ll never know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wincing, Spencer answers, “It’s really bright.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are there clouds in the sky?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A few near the horizon line.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tell me what kinds they are.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nodding, Spencer replies, “Cirrus and cirrocumulus. They’re all very wispy.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Now look down at your feet. What do you see?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a bit of a pause, but Spencer eventually replies, “I’m wearing shoes. Socks. My feet are hot. Probably more than one pair of socks.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“How do your toes feel?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Squeezed. I don’t like it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What are you standing on?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s… black. Rocks. Asphalt,” Spencer answers, brain connecting the dots.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch feels how his son looks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confused, lost, just generally unsure of how to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s far more difficult than it’s ever been to get Spencer out of his own head. Back in the BAU, even at the worst moments, he’s been able to get a little bit of slack from Spencer, but right now he’s not getting anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the older man didn’t know any better, he’d think that Spencer couldn’t even hear him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch knows he can though, so he begins to talk. At first, it starts as important things, walking through breathing exercises, asking if he was hurt, but after that doesn’t do anything good, Hotch just begins a random story.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are still plenty of fine memories between him and Sean, and Hotch jumps straight into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We weren’t even that young,” He continues, scratching stubble that needs to be shaved. “That’s probably the most embarrassing part of it. Well, Sean was probably around Jack’s age, so he was still little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the side, Jack juts in, “I’m not little!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hate to break it to you, but if you’re still shorter than me, you’re still little. It’s how I see Sean too,” Hotch adds with a smile. “The point is, we were both smart enough to not make the stupid mistakes we did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this the story with the bush?” Jack asks, pressing his fingers between his pajama shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a fond chuckle, Hotch nods. “The one and only. It’s a good one, and Spencer hasn’t heard it yet, so no complaining. Anyway, it was spring break, which is always a recipe for disaster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The problem is, it’s so close to summer that we just get too antsy, and neither of us could keep our jitters in. Not all of us loved school like you,” Hotch smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few houses down is where the arroyo came past, and on the other side of that, there was this little section of land that was fenced off. But we learned that none of the neighbor’s owned it, it was actually the City’s property. Which to us obviously meant that we got to do what we wanted with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s really hot,” Spencer complains, swallowing in a weak attempt to get moisture in his mouth.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah. It’s… sweltering.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mari sniffs before asking, “You’re on asphalt right now. What activity are you doing?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you looking anywhere in particular?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The street? No. Beside the street.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What’s beside the street?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A motel.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still keeping his eyes on Spencer, Hotch continues. “Sean stole one of the wire cutters from my dad’s toolbox a few days earlier. I guess it was premeditated breaking and entering, now that I think about it. They were a pretty cheap pair, but after a few minutes we were able to cut enough of the chain link fence to squeeze through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you get cut?” Jack asks, even though he’s heard the story a thousand times before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobbing his head back and forth, Hotch honestly answers, “A few scratches on both of us. It was still cold enough in that spring that we were both wearing jackets though, so that saved us from a bit of bloodshed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Jack questions, “What was inside?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grinning, Hotch answers, “Nothing. There was nothing but overgrown plants and mud inside the fenced off area.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh,” Jack laughs, knowing exactly where the story is going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...At least that’s what he thought,” Hotch continues, doing his best to make it as dramatic as possible. “We were just going to walk around, make sure that there weren’t any little tokens or anything around, when the first bush moved,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s the dead woman.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a long pause before Mari answers. “What?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“She’s not dead yet.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...Okay. Where are you? Are you by her?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah,” Spencer slowly responds. “She’s near my arm.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Where are the two of you? Still on the road?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No. No, we’re in the room.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What’s in the room?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer? What’s in the room?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Nothing is.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At first we thought it was the wind, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack raises his brow. “What kind of wind only rustles one bush?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch takes a second to smile at him, before motioning at Spencer. “Well, unlike the resident genius here, we weren’t the brightest of kids.” Face falling at Spencer’s still blank face, Hotch continues, “I bet you could’ve told us what all of the wildlife in that area was, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unsurprisingly, Spencer neither confirms nor denies that question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But then the bush moved again,” The older man starts up again, even though his smile hasn’t returned. “Both of us knew that it couldn’t have been the wind at that point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would’ve known it wasn’t the wind earlier,” Jack boasts, and his dad doesn’t even doubt that. Hotch knows for a fact that Jack’s far more smarter than he was his age.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, we were dumb boys, so instead of being weary, we both immediately went to go investigate it. Sean had a stick,” Hotch gives a weak chuckle at the memory, before going on, “We thought it was gonna be a bird, or maybe a rabbit or something, so Sean started poking the bush with the stick, and I was nearly kicking it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I say that wasn’t my brightest moment, I’m not exaggerating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you sure you want to continue?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a sigh. “Look down. What’s at your feet?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Barely breathing, Spencer answers, “Carpet.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What color is the carpet?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m… not sure. Blue? Gray? It’s old. Stained. I’m glad I’m wearing shoes.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Alright, look up. What’s on the walls?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“There’s only one window, and it’s grimy. The walls are also dirty.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Now look at the woman you’re with. What’s she doing?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer frowns. “She’s trying to get me to leave? Why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first few times Hotch told this story to Jack, he’d always bring up his hands at the same time, trying to scare Jack just as much as he was as a teenager. He doesn’t do it this time though, and Jack’s age isn’t the only reason why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch isn’t even sure if the younger man is following the story, but when it comes to Spencer, he doesn’t want to chance startling the man. At the moment he seems content with watching the floor and rocking back and forth, and Hotch would rather not change that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clearing his throat, Hotch gets to the exciting part. “Sean told me that he saw something move, but I didn’t believe him,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You probably should’ve,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In hindsight, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>should’ve,” Hotch smiles at his son. “But I was older and since I didn’t see it, I thought that Sean was joking around. So we went to turn around and go back through the hole in the fence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s when-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grin, Hotch interrupts, “Shush, don’t spoil it, Spencer’s never heard this one.” After a quick glance to see Spencer still looking down, Hotch continues, “And that’s when the ground started moving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it wasn’t the ground.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope,” Hotch agrees. “We both looked down and basically started screaming.” Doing his best to find Spencer’s eyes, Hotch reveals, “Turns out, we were disrupting snakes. And not just two or three, I’m talking nearly dozens of snakes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack grins, still stuck in his middle school snake phase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We started jumping up and down, trying to not keep our feet on the ground for as long as we could, like we were on fire or something,” Hotch smiles, “That probably just made them more terrified though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were probably just as scared as we were. To them, we were the trespassers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Look down, what do you see?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s hardwood. No. I’m moving. Tile. Tile is underneath me. I’m not in the motel anymore.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ignoring her better judgement, Mari coaxes him on. “What kind of tile?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Small squares. Almost white?” Mumbling, Spencer continues, “I don’t know how I got here.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That’s okay. Look around. Do you still see the woman?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes. She’s… Talking.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What’s she saying?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I can’t tell. I can’t hear her.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then, I swear to you, more and more snakes just kept coming out. We were nearly shouting our heads off,” If Hotch could go back in time, he’d probably smack his younger self in the face for stupidity. Then again, he got enough of that from his father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Physically shaking his head to get rid of the thought, Hotch takes a quick breath and continues, “We found the hole in the fence that we made earlier and both of us just dove straight into that, desperate to get out of that little plot of land.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did any of them bite you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Hotch replies, “Nah. Even if they tried, Sean and I were both wearing jeans. There’s no way that those little guys could’ve gotten through that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were small?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah. Probably harmless, but that’s not what we were thinking at the time.” Turning his attention back to Spencer, Hotch wonders, “You could probably tell me what kind of snakes they were. I still have no idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The knife,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wait what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Frowning, Spencer looks at the knife sitting in the wooden block on the countertop, as if it was as clear as a picture. “There’s the knife.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tell me what you see?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...It’s not bloody yet.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, this is a terrible idea. We’re not going to go through any more of your memories, okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oblivious, Spencer continues, “I’m used to it being covered in blood.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer! Open your eyes. Look down. You’re in Virginia right now. What’s underneath your feet?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The tile isn’t bloody yet,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knock on the door scares every person inside the Hotchner household. Hotch can’t decide if Spencer’s jumpy reaction is good or bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morgan,” Hotch greets, sucking in a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Skipping all pleasantries, which Hotch is fairly grateful for, Derek questions, “When’d he get here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About thirty minutes ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crouching down in front of Spencer, Derek tries to soothe him, “Hey, Pretty Boy. Gave us all quite a scare, you know that? We aren’t mad though. Just glad you’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The younger man doesn’t look up. Even though it’s obvious he heard the knock on the door a few seconds ago, it doesn’t seem like he’s interested in the world going on around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning to Hotch, Derek asks, “Has he said anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing. Morgan, what’s going on? Why isn’t he on a case with the rest of the team?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek gives an empty sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell happened to him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...I had my thoughts on whether or not she was just easily manipulated or if she honestly was a psychopath.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, I need you to listen to me,” Mari starts, panic seeping into her voice. “You’re on a phone call with me, okay? You’re in Virginia, in your friend’s house.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...I’m not.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The look in her eye makes me think that she was always psychopathic.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, you’re in Virginia right now, okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek knows it’s not his story to tell, he really does. But at the moment, Hotch looks about as freaked out as Jack does, and one of them has been trained to conceal emotions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So instead, he takes a deep breath, and hopes that Spencer won’t hate him. “Two weeks ago he was hospitalized during a case in Dallas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch lets the information sink in for a fraction of a second before he’s already questioning more. “For what? Something psychological?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Derek quickly answers, before backtracking. “Well, actually, no, no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek just groans from frustration. “Emily told me that he was hospitalized officially for heat exhaustion. Of course as soon as he was admitted they had some psychologist or someone talk with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fearing what the answer to his next question might be, Hotch turns to his son, “Hey, Jack. Now that Uncle Derek’s here, you can go back to bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not tired anymore,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just try?” Hotch asks, practically pleading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although his curiosity almost gets the better of him, the adolescent can feel the tension in the room. After a few seconds, he agrees, “Okay. Fine. Is Uncle Spencer gonna be okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s going to be fine. I’ll come check on you in a second, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not five, dad,” Jack complains, even though both of them know he certainly wouldn’t mind his dad checking on him. It’s been one hell of a morning so far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch waits until he hears the quiet click of Jack’s bedroom door shutting, before looking back at Spencer, and then Derek. “Why did a psychologist need to talk with him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was wearing three layers of clothes. And a suit jacket on top of it all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frowning, Hotch mutters, “I’m not quite following,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s summer,” Derek sighs, “The kid had sweaters on, multiple pairs of pants, and even three pairs of socks. Something… isn’t right. It hasn’t for a long time,” He adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch just shakes his head. “I knew that something was going on with him when I was Unit Chief, but I- I didn’t realize it got that bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t blame yourself,” Derek replies, “None of us noticed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, listen to me, I need you to find your friend, and give him the phone, okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a heavy sigh. “We thought it was safe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re in Virginia right now.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“She unlocked the door so quietly we didn’t even notice.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s hot. It’s really, really hot. Why is it so hot?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re in Virginia.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dropping his forehead into his palms, Hotch takes a deep breath. “Do you know what caused this?” He asks, motioning to Spencer’s rocking form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pregnant pause before Derek slowly nods. “I have a hunch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know that Spencer went to prison, after we left?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Did something happen while he was in there?” Hotch has spent enough time as a lawyer that he knows what types of things guards can’t protect from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek shakes his head, much to his relief. “Not that I know of. It’s what happened before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“JJ said Spencer was framed for murder, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Derek answers, looking at his fingernails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Narrowing his eyes, Hotch questions, “What aren’t you telling me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know why it took so long to get him exonerated?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was drugged, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not just that. He couldn’t- he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>remember anything that happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch’s perpetual frown seems to deepen even further. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hotch, something real bad happened when he was down in Mexico, but he’s determined to figure it out,” Derek admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Motioning to the figure on the couch, the older man questions, “So what happened here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My guess?” With a dull voice, Derek swallows, “He remembered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m trying to protect her, but I just can’t,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mari doesn’t even bother to hide the panic from her voice. “Spencer, listen to me. You need to give the phone to your friend, okay? Even if he’s asleep, I need you to wake him up.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My neck hurts,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, listen to me. You’re not in Mexico, okay? Can you repeat that for me? ‘I’m not in Mexico.’”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But really, Spencer is. “I can’t do anything to stop it. There’s blood everywhere.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re in Virginia. You’re not in Mexico.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“There’s so much blood,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“There’s so much blood.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding to the side of Spencer’s jacket, Hotch points out, “Looks like he’s got his phone. Why didn’t he just call?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek shakes his head. “I have no clue what goes on in that kid’s mind,” Before giving a quick, but genuine, apology when he reaches into his pocket. Holding up so Hotch can see the screen, Derek raises his eyebrows, “Look at this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never heard of a Mari Stein. Therapist?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope,” Derek replies, right as the call rings out. “Spencer said she was an old friend from CalTech, but this timing don’t seem like much of a coincidence.” For a split second Derek and Hotch can see the notifications on his lock screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thirty-plus missed calls?” Hotch questions, astonishment seeping into his voice. “Who the hell is this woman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Screen lighting up with yet another call from Mari, Derek shrugs and brings the phone up to his ear. “Let’s find out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My hand hurts.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, find your friend. Wake him up.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m holding the knife. Why am I holding the knife?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer,” Mari starts again, refusing to give up, “You need to wake up someone in the house, you hear me?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“...Lindsey won’t leave. Even though she’s already dead.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I need you to wake someone up in the house.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What’s she doing?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Without putting the phone on speaker, Derek makes it as loud as possible so Hotch can hear as he answers, “Try again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Where’s Spencer? Is he okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Going back to his profiler days, Derek speaks up, “Yeah, we’re going to be asking the questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Who’s ‘we’? Wait no- just tell me if Spencer’s okay?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Derek sighs. To her credit, Mari certainly sounds genuinely worried. “He’s alive. What the fuck did you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I didn’t mean to do anything!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Frowning, Hotch snatches the phone from the younger man while muttering, “Morgan,” Before speaking up. “Are you Mari Stein?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes. Who is this?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aaron Hotchner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a slight pause before Mari answers, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer’s told me about you. You’re his boss, right?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Rather than get into a short history lesson of the BAU, Hotch just goes with it. “Were you interacting with Spencer tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“‘Interacting’? I mean, yeah,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> She stutters. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“We were talking on the phone.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the side, Derek questions, “What the hell were you talking about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, listen to me. You’re in Virginia right now, okay? And I need you to go wake up someone in the house.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t… No, no no no,” Spencer breathlessly replies.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re not in Mexico right now. You’re in Virginia. You’re safe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shaking his head, Spencer whispers, “She’s too close to me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“She’s not anywhere near you. You’re in Virgnia.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t want her here. She can’t. She- she can’t.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mari sounds like she’s about to cry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I know it was a bad idea! I told him that a hundred times!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well maybe you should’ve tried telling him a hundred and one times!” Derek yells into the phone before Hotch takes a step away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mari,” Hotch starts, “What did he tell you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Voice hoarse, she replies, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I swear, I had no idea what was going to happen. I didn’t think about how it could be. Otherwise I never would’ve done this.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as Hotch is about to respond Derek barks out from a few feet away, “Yeah, you just decided to add to his trauma, huh?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I didn’t know he had gone through so many other things! I told you, if I knew, I never would have agreed to this!’</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Hotch interrupts, even though that’s far from the truth. “What happened, happened. We can’t go back and fix it. You need to tell me what you talked about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mari swallows before beginning. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“It started tame. I didn’t think it was going to escalate into what it did.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer can’t even tell that he’s crying. “I can’t push her away.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mari, on the other hand, is completely aware that tears are streaming down her face, not that she can do anything about it. “Shh, Spencer. You’re okay. You’re in Virginia. No one’s hurting you, I promise.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I can’t get away from her,” He hiccups. “I’m trying.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know you’re trying,” Mari soothes. “But you’re not there right now. You’re in your friend’s house. Safe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I want her to stop.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I didn’t even know that there was a murder involved! Let alone-”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mari cries out, the only reason she’s not panicking being the fact that she’s studied for years how to stop a panic attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe you,” Hotch replies, ignoring Derek’s nasty look. “Is that what Spencer was remembering? The woman getting killed in front of him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mari sniffs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I guess? Yes? But… that’s not what we were talking about when it got bad.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“When what got bad?” Hotch questions.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Not what: Who. When Spencer got worse.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch has the distinct feeling that he’s going to regret asking the second he opens his mouth. “What was he remembering?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Stop, stop, stop, stop,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer,” Mari interjects, “You’re not there. You’re safe. Listen to my voice. You’re safe in Virginia. You’re in your friend’s house. You’re safe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Stop, stop, stop, stop,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re safe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“She said it was for Cat, but she won’t stop,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The tears on her face keep gathering at her chin, before falling onto the floor. “You’re safe, Spencer. I promise, you’re safe.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I  can’t do anything to make her stop.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a gulp, Mari asks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Who’s Cat?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Both men look toward each other, but Derek’s the first one to ask, “Cat was involved in Mexico?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to call Emily,”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Who’s Cat?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mari calls out again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Because whatever Spencer remembered it had to do with some woman named Cat.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek shakes his head, already fishing out his phone. “No. No, Garcia told me that Lindsey was the one in Mexico.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not agents anymore,” Hotch points out, “We might not have heard the whole story because of our clearance. Or lack thereof,” He adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is fucking-” Derek cuts himself off when Emily answers on the first ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Morgan. Hotch just called me. Is Spencer okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Skipping the answer, Derek asks a question of his own. “You need to tell me everything about Cat Adams.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I didn't realize until editing but there are so many italics in this chapter. between the memories and the phone calls half the damned chapter is italicized oops</p><p>Kinda random but I had a lot of fun with the prose in this chapter. Having Spencer's thoughts/memories all random and choppy, while Hotch's POV is a very typical reliable narrator type of prose. It was a lot of fun jeje</p><p>Have a wonderful day and use the hotlines below if you need them!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Please Look the Other Way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Now that Spencer has remembered, he doesn't know what to do with himself. How is anyone supposed to move on?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! I hope that everyone's having a wonderful Monday, and if not, I hope that it gets better! I just want to put in an extra thank you to everyone's kind words, you're incredibly inspiring, and I just can't say thank you enough!!</p>
<p>Trigger warnings for this chapter: allusions and talks of sexual abuse, a dash of domestic abuse, and a single usage of the word r*pe.</p>
<p>As always, your health matters more than any piece of literature, so please don't hesitate to back out of this story if you need to! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Emily is quiet on the other end of the phone for a long time. Hotch is half convinced that she’s disconnected. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere along the line, Spencer’s stopped rocking, but he still doesn’t look close to normal. Or rather, as normal as Spencer has ever gotten. His face is pale, jaw clenched, fingers periodically moving to pick at the opposite hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To avoid phone juggling, Garcia sets up a conference call between the Hotchner house, a hotel in Montana, and a random woman in Indiana. Mari Stein. Hotch isn’t sure what to think of this woman, but it’s obvious that she should be in this conversation, despite Derek’s arguing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After checking on Jack, and allowing him to just sit on his phone instead of sleeping, Hotch is finally ready to get answers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a tired sigh, Emily begins with, “Half of this is confidential. That’s what happens when Cat Adams is involved. If Cruz hears about this-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then we’ll deal with it,” Hotch interrupts without feeling any guilt. Turning away from the phone, he then asks, “How are you feeling, Spencer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone stays silent, waiting for a response that never comes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Uncharastically quiet, Emily continues. “After he got out of prison, he and JJ had to go to the Women’s Correctional Facility.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” Mari asks, old tears still evident in her voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To interview Cat Adams.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both Hotch and Derek suck in a breath. “What did they learn?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t know for sure, but you need to remember that Cat’s extraordinarily manipulative.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek’s patience has thoroughly improved from when he began at the BAU, and even further after Hank. However at the moment, with his kid brother nearly catatonic, he’s not ready for a long winded story. “Spit it out, Emily.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cat was pregnant. Her story was corroborated by the infirmary nurses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh God,” Mari chokes out. She’s worked long enough to connect the dots.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clenching his fist, Hotch just shakes his head. “No. That’s not- that couldn’t have happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing, Mari points out, “Abusive partners will take advantage of empathy by using a child to keep them together. It’s… happened before. I’ve seen it in my own patients.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She must’ve been lying,” Hotch gets out through clenched teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The way that Spencer was talking,” Mari starts, not without a shake in her voice, “I had my suspicions, just based on what I’ve heard from my other patients, but hearing this? I-” She cuts herself off with a swallow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek immediately intejects the sudden silence. “No. No, these things aren’t supposed to happen to other people. Not to Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think he was raped.” Mari finishes, right as Derek sees red.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been angry before, but nothing like this. This feeling isn’t simply anger. It’s the horrifying realization that his kid brother went through the worst possible thing in the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, even though Spencer is right in front of him, this feels worse than Hankel. Before he can even think about stopping himself, Derek draws back his fist and shoves it into the nearest wall, cursing himself when it makes Spencer jump.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morgan,” Hotch starts, turning away from the phone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tears fall from Derek’s eyes as he just shakes his head. “I can’t do this Hotch, I just- fuck. Fuck! This isn’t supposed to happen to him!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go. Get some water, take a second. No one’s going to blame you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the phone, Emily speaks up, “Hotch, is Morgan okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He reacted about as well as you’d think,” He cryptically answers. “We need to talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s an understatement,” Emily mumbles, before speaking up. “And Marianna, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sniff, Mari confirms, “Yeah. I go by Mari though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great. We’re going to need to talk as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gathering that. I want to be there in person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning at Spencer, Hotch asks, “Where do you live?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Indianapolis. When Spencer talked to me I swear I didn’t know what he was trying to get himself into.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, Emily points out, “That’s the thing about Spence. He finds a way to do what he wants, no matter the repercussions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still. I feel guilty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Hotch shakes his head. “No more than the rest of us, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause before Mari questions, “Is your friend- Morgan? Is he okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll be fine,” Hotch quickly supplies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hotch, you need to call Spencer’s therapist. I’ll,” Emily takes a breath, “Try and see if I can get out there. There’s been seven ‘cult like’ killings over here though, so I don’t know how much Cruz will appreciate that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just focus on the case for now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a scoff, Emily counters, “I don’t think I’ll be able to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Try. The local PD needs you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Emily murmurs. “I’m not gonna be able to tell the rest of the team. None of them are going to be able to work the case if they know about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch swallows. “They’ll forgive you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve already kept one giant secret from them. How are they gonna deal with a second?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Hotch can even formulate an answer, Mari speaks up. “I’ll let you deal with whatever FBI things you have. I’ll make some time, move around appointments, see if I can get a flight to Virginia. You have my number?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Hotch confirms. “Keep your phone on you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will,” Mari promises, before apologizing again, “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Mari. I’ll call you later,” Hotch sighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After she disconnects, Hotch lets out a stressed and tired sigh. “Emily. You have to tell me more of what happened, or I’m not going to be able to help you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even over the phone, Hotch can tell that Emily’s weighing her options. “Hotch, you don’t work with the BAU, or even the FBI anymore. These are classified files, I shouldn’t have even told you as much as I did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All due respect, I don’t give a fuck,” Hotch seamlessly replies. “It’s Spencer. I’ve known the kid before he could even drink. I need those files.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I realize that, but you’re not in a position-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need those files. I’ll ask Garcia, and you know that she’ll give them to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a harsh exhale, Emily points out, “Hotch, you’re technically a civilian. You know that I can’t legally give you the files.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then give them to me illegally,” He easily replies. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Emily. I get that the job is important, believe me, I do. But it’s not as important as family. I already had to learn that once, I’m not making the same mistake.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a quiet pause, but eventually Emily replies, “You’ll get an encrypted email. I need to go. Take care of Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Hotch honestly replies. “I will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dropping his phone on the other couch, Hotch sinks back into a chair in front of Spencer. Looking to find the younger man’s eyes, he mumbles, “And then there were two.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s still no response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re gonna be okay, Spencer. I know it’s scary, but you’re going to be okay. I’m sorry we never noticed earlier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he hears the back door open, Hotch gives a quick turn to see Derek, looking up at the ceiling to avoid tears. “The call’s done?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shaky laugh, Derek mutters, “If I see that woman, I’m going to become the next unsub,” Before shaking his head. “I’m gonna rip Cat apart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morgan,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither confirming nor denying his thoughts, Hotch just sighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Picking up the untouched glass of water, Derek crouches next to Spencer. “Hey kid. Why don’t you drink some water? It’ll make you feel better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer swallows, and neither of the men know if it’s an involuntary movement or a response to the question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry you’re going through this,” Derek quietly muses. “This should never happen to anyone. Ever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he gets is a shaky breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can change his mind, Derek whispers, “I’m going to reach out to your hand, okay? Little bit of grounding, it’ll be good.” True to his word, after a glance toward Hotch, Derek puts a heavy hand over Spencer’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though he nearly misses it, Derek catches a flicker in his brother’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There you go. It’s scary. I know it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly feeling very out of place, Hotch sets a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I’m going to go check on Jack. Are you two going to be okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” The older man nods. “And afterwards we’ll look at that hand.” He’s gone before Derek can even think about arguing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a deep exhale, Derek rubs the side of Spencer’s hand with the thumb of his good hand. “It’s okay to be scared. I was too. I still am,” He admits. “We’re human.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if the admission finally breaks some of the chains inside of his brain, tears begin falling from Spencer’s eyes, sliding slowly down his cheeks, reaching his chin, before dripping off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re gonna be okay, kid. I promise you, you’re gonna be okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s breath stutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay to be feeling all of this. I promise. Just let it out. It’s just you and me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just as more tears fall, Spencer quietly admits, “I couldn’t do anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know kid, I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I tried, Morgan. I tried, I promise I tried-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the past two weeks, Derek doesn’t hesitate before reaching up to give his kid brother a hug. Although it was a bit of a gamble, he relaxes a fraction of his tension when Spencer falls into it, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing back his own tears, Derek soothes, “You’re gonna be okay. I promise. You’re gonna be fine. You’re okay now. I’m never going to let her hurt you again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t want her to,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, I know, I know. You’re okay kid. I understand. Nothing that happened was your fault. I promise, okay? I promise.” Derek doesn’t care if he’s repeating words, hell, he doesn’t even care if his damned sentences even make sense. All he wants is Spencer to be okay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer just continues crying into Derek’s shoulder, broken sobs echoing around the small living room. With every new breath, Derek feels his heart break a little further.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clutching the back of Spencer’s neck, he soothes, “You’re gonna be okay. I know it’s scary now, but I promise you’re gonna be just fine. I’m not leaving you, you hear me? Never.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wish I didn’t remember,” Spencer chokes out, and Derek couldn’t agree with the sentiment anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re okay now. I promise, you’re okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I couldn’t do anything to stop her,” Spencer sobs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, I know. It wasn’t your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just wanted her to stop,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God kid, I know. I understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I couldn’t do anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Holding him even closer, Derek quietly mumbles, “C’m’here, kid. I got you. I promise. I’m here. And I ain’t ever leaving. I’m here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer just cries harder, and there’s nothing that either of them can do to stop it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feeling his own tears, Derek continues, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just let it out. I know how you feel. I promise that you’re okay now. She can never hurt you again. I promise. You’re okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although he doesn’t remember when he began rocking again, Spencer doesn’t even try to stop the motion. Derek leans into it, and Spencer just lets his mind run numb.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t want anything to do with the thoughts currently circling his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So instead, he just holds on to Derek as if his life depended on it. And at the moment, it may as well. Everything is just going wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This wasn’t supposed to happen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was supposed to remember what happened to the medication for his mom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of this was supposed to happen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was supposed to be a simple memory exercise. That’s all it was supposed to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This never should have happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now he’s in Hotch’s living room without even knowing how, bile rising in his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything went wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer just wants it all to go back to normal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to work at the BAU before Hankel even came into his life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to be meeting Gideon for the first time, the moment his life seemed to take a positive turn.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to be greeted by Mari in psychology class, passing over notes because the professor just talked too damned fast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to be in bed with Diana, as she reads old poetry that only makes sense in his heart, not his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to be wrapped up in a coat before splashing in the puddles outside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s life was never supposed to do this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he was going to do was study genetics. Maybe toss in some chemistry on the side, working in a lab with a white lab coat and a cage of rats.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It all went wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything went wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t know where to go from here. He doesn’t know how anyone is supposed to go on after this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which is strange, given the fact that Spencer’s read file after file of this exact thing happening, yet he can’t seem to pull up any of them in his mind. The words themselves make sense, but when it’s put all together, Spencer doesn’t seem to understand it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks that he probably should be concerned about this fact, but at the moment, he’s fine with just holding the idea in his head. Idly staying behind his eyes, floating in a bubble in his brain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’ll just have to deal with this in the future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Derek’s shoulder is sufficiently soaked in tears, Spencer finally lifts his head off. A second later, he wishes he was back in the older man’s embrace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s another thing that just doesn’t make sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By all means, Spencer should hate touch, even more than before he remembered. But right now, all he wants is to be safe. Safe with the brother that always protected him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s grateful when Derek doesn’t push the topic, but instead holds up a glass of water that seemed to have just appeared in front of him. “You should drink some water. It helps after you’ve cried.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shaky hand, Spencer grabs the glass, all of his concentration going into not dropping it. Something tells him that shards of glass on the wood floor won’t help-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wait. Wood floor?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are we?” Spencer’s voice doesn’t even sound like his own. Chalking it up to a sore throat, Spencer finally takes a sip of the cool liquid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not bothering to hide his frown, Derek answers, “You’re in Hotch’s living room. Ring a bell?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking around, Spencer quietly responds. “Oh. I guess we are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He thinks you walked here. Take another sip,” Derek adds, protectiveness coming off of him in waves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After obliging, Spencer knits his eyebrows together. “I walked here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the story your feet tell, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Awkwardly pretzeling his legs to get a good look at the bottom of his socks, Spencer winces. “Oops.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Oops’?” Derek questions, stopping himself from yelling, knowing it won’t help. “Kid, you walked fucking dozens of miles in the middle of the night, and all you have to say is ‘oops’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer swallows. With a timid voice, he asks, “How did you handle it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nearly getting whiplash from the sudden change, Derek questions, “Handle what?” Even though he already has a pretty good idea of what the answer is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“After Buford.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With great difficulty,” Derek honestly answers. He doesn’t want to spin a nice story about the aftermath, painting a pretty picture when it was anything but. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking the glass from Spencer’s hand, Derek continues, “But I got through it. And you’re gonna too. You’re strong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pushes his lips to the side, but doesn’t say anything. There’s really no good way to respond to that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a soft click from a door, Hotch walks into the living room, giving Spencer an excuse to not continue the conversation. Looking between the two men for a second, Hotch asks, “How’re you feeling?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Spencer answers, evading the question with little subtly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch just waves it off. “Don’t apologize for that. But don’t skip that question either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Spencer sucks in a breath. “I don’t know how I feel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s understandable,” Hotch replies. “Did you drink any water?” After Spencer nods, Hotch continues, “It’s always good to drink water after crying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Making a face, Spencer questions, “Why does everyone say that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who else has said it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You, Morgan, and Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luke’s a smart guy then,” Derek chimes in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pausing for just a moment, Hotch confirms, “Luke Alvez?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The one and only,” Comes the quick reply from Derek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch looks like he’s about to ask more, but a chirp from his phone interrupts him. After glancing at the message, he moves a few feet away before opening it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both of the other men are instantly suspicious, but Derek’s the first one to speak up. “What’re you lookin’ at, Hotch?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” He absentmindedly answers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s not gonna cut it. What’d you just get?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Emily sent me a file-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s about me, isn’t it?” Spencer questions, looking at his knees rather than anywhere else in the room. They’re interesting knees, what can he say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although he takes a second to weigh his options, Hotch realizes it’s a sisyphean task to lie to profilers. “Not completely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cat Adams, then,” The younger man concludes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A silence filled with tension echoes around the room. Surprisingly, Spencer’s the one to break it. “She did it all from prison, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I remember.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Derek points out, “That doesn’t mean you have to bully yourself into thinking about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t not think about it. I can’t get it out of my mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch’s sympathetic look is no match for Derek’s empathetic one, and Spencer can’t help but curl into himself like a turtle. The attention feels so shockingly wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a swallow, Derek notes, “I know it’s hard to stop thinking about it. But just know that you don’t have to spend all of your energy focusing on it. ‘Cause if you do, it’ll eat you up from the inside out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All Spencer can get out is a shuddering breath, and Derek can’t blame him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer eyes the glass of water, but frowns before he reaches out. “What happened to your hand?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a fraction of a second, Hotch’s eyes have already moved from his phone to the couch, making a face when he sees what Spencer’s eyes have found. “Shit, Morgan. Why didn’t you say anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Barely felt it,” Derek mumbles, inspecting his own hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...You should get ice,” Spencer points out, happy to have something else to focus on, even if it happened to be his injured brother. Does that make him selfish?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can muse on that fact, Derek’s already muttering, “I’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch mumbles something under his breath, before cracking something from his freezer. A few seconds later, Derek is giving a nasty look to the older man while keeping his knuckles under an ice pack covered in a paper towel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprising the older men yet again, Spencer speaks up. “Gideon told me when it happened the first time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” The reaction is nearly instantaneous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your hand,” Spencer clarifies. “Back in Georgia. When he tried to help me with Dilaudid. He told me that people cared about me. Enough to punch a door,” He adds, looking up at Derek with faux innocence. “That’s what happened here, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing to the questionable drywall, Hotch murmurs, “It was a wall this time,” Ignoring the look that Derek gives him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was just worried, kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry you hurt your hand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare apologize for that,” Derek quickly responds. “Don’t even think about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Spencer’s instinct is to argue, he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Now isn’t the time to try and deal with Derek’s mother henning. Then again, there’s not really a time to deal with that. It’s ingrained in the older man forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feeling pairs of eyes on him, Spencer looks away and announces, “I think I’d like to go home now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s, not gonna happen,” Derek replies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, why not?” Spencer questions, looking akin to a lost puppy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily, before Derek can crush the kid’s dream, Hotch swoops in. “Spencer, you were in a pretty bad place. It’s not exactly safe to send you home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, just back to Morgan’s house?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without making eye contact Derek adds, “Yeah, with a pitstop to your therapist’s office.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s really not necessary-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The look in both of the other men’s eyes instantly shut Spencer up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It really is,” Derek counters, no room for arguing. “You know she takes emergency appointments.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shudders. He doesn’t want to think of himself as one of those patients. Logically he knows that there’s nothing wrong with it, but he still can’t help the nagging feeling that if he could just suck it up he’d be fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you,” Hotch says with a pointed look to Derek, “Might need to go to urgent care to get that hand checked out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh,” Derek shrugs, “I’ve had worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking up, Spencer points out, “That’s not very comforting given the fact that you’ve had bullet wounds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek doesn’t miss a beat. “Now you know how I feel. Anytime you’re in my vicinity. Literally all the time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer makes a face, but wisely doesn’t argue with that logic. He’s not wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I need to have a long conversation with your friend Mari,” Hotch murmurs, cutting through the younger man’s thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pinches his eyebrows together. “Wait, you talked with Mari?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you like to see how many missed messages you have from her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you have my phone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch effectively quiets Spencer down by showing him his lock screen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...That’s a lot of missed calls.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Hotch adds, “You should probably call her back. You really scared her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘S her fault for it anyway,” Derek mumbles, knowing full well that the other people can hear him perfectly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shrinks down. “Don’t do that. Don’t blame her. I pushed her to do this for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s a professional,” Derek points out, “She should’ve known better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just please don’t get mad at her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek makes a noncommittal noise, but at the moment, it’s good enough for Spencer. It’s not like he’s expecting them to be the bestest of friends or anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer nearly jumps when his phone suddenly vibrates in his hand, dropping it onto his lap. Before he even has a second to look at it, it’s already buzzing again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s that?” Derek asks with a frown. However, the second Spencer gets a look at his notifications, Derek concludes, “Oh, Luke-y Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please don’t call him that,” Spencer grumbles, expertly keeping his screen away from prying eyes. Not that it’ll do much when it comes to Derek’s questioning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Are you ok?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I dont know whats going on but garcia texted me</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>If youre okay please write back</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>You dont have to have a conversation with me i just want to know if everythings ok</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Garcia told me that emily was asking about the cat adams file</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Wait am i legally allowed to text that?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It doesnt matter</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Are you ok?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That man is insistent,” Derek muses, making Spencer look up from his phone to make a face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even in those short few moments, Luke’s nearly doubled his texts</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Please tell me youre ok</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Garcias also worried about it</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>She didnt tell me much so i hope im not invading your privacy or anything</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Im just worried </em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Sorry for spamming you btw ill stop</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I am okay</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Good</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Sorry I guess I overreacted</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It wasn’t much of an overreaction</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Wait whats that mean?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Did something actually happen?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I thought i was just being nervous for no reason</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It’s a long story</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It’s okay you don’t need to tell me if you dont want to</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Privacy and all that</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I wont press</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Im just glad to hear that youre ok</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Thank you</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>For what?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>For caring</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Yeah its no problem</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I care about you</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer isn’t exactly sure how he should be responding to that. This could be one of those instances where he’d use “me too” but it just doesn’t feel right. He cares about Luke, of course he does, but using two words to show it isn’t genuine enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Texting is hard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer looks up from his phone, Derek has his own, bringing it up to his ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slightly dreading the answer, Spencer questions, “Who are you calling?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Delilah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer makes a face, but he knows that nothing that he can say will sway the older man. It’s probably for the best.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That being said, Spencer absolutely loathes the idea of having to see his therapist. Now is not the time. Then again, now is probably exactly the time for an appointment. He often needs them when he feels the worst.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer hates this feeling. In a perfect world, he’d just stay under his covers for eternity, and he wouldn’t have to deal with all of this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thinking about it, that’s probably why he’s in therapy in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling Spencer out of his thoughts, Hotch nods to the glass, “Drink some more water. You’re probably pretty dehydrated.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without any good excuse to not to, Spencer obliges. It feels a bit strange drinking with two other people watching him like a hawk, but there’s nothing that he can do about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as Derek gets through to the office, he steps away, speaking in hushed tones. No matter how much Spencer tries to focus on his voice, he can’t make out what Derek’s saying. It causes more anxiety than he thinks it ought to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch seems to notice though, and quickly begins a conversation of his own. “I’m glad you came here, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Hotch bobs his head back and forth, “I suppose it would’ve been ideal if you had stayed at Morgan’s, but out of all of the places you could’ve gone in the middle of the night, I’m glad you picked here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer nods, but still attempts to explain, “I don’t really remember coming here. I don’t remember thinking about your house, or even how to get here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you made it here. And I’m glad that you did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice is so genuine that Spencer doesn’t even want to argue with it. Hotch practically sounds just as broken up as Spencer feels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a swallow, Spencer admits, “I’m glad that I did too. Even if I don’t know how.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re safe here, you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer confirms, “Of course. I think that I even understand that subconsciously. Otherwise I don’t think I would’ve made it here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch lets out a breath. “I don’t want to think about you ending up anywhere else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me neither.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a long lull in the conversation before Hotch slightly switches gears, “So who’s Mari? Derek said she’s a friend from CalTech?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer nods. “That’s exactly what she is. We met in undergrad, she was a grade above me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How much older was she?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seven years,” Spencer answers, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. She basically took care of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Hotch muses, “I had always wondered how you made it through college at such an early age. I thought it was Gideon, but this makes more sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t even meet Gideon until five years later. By then Mari was long gone. She moved for grad school.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Hotch takes a deep breath in, “I’m glad she was there for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer gives a short nod. “It doesn’t seem like Morgan feels the same way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s just worried.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want him to blame Mari,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think we’re going to have any control over that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Spencer agrees, “Yeah. Hopefully he isn’t too mad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like I said, he’s not mad. Morgan’s just worried.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I feel bad for worrying him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a short chuckle, Hotch replies, “Again, I don’t think you have much control over him. Morgan’s always going to worry about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I usually don’t see him this panicked,” Spencer announces, not exactly knowing where the words even came from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know that he cares, and I know that he worries,” Spencer starts, “But he usually hides it. Either that, or I’m just unconscious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch’s face falls into a frown almost instantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Confused to what he said, Spencer questions, “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Hotch shakes his head. “Just that you spend too much time unconscious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Comes with the job?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No one else has had it as bad as you,” Hotch counters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer scrunches his nose up. “What do you mean? You got stabbed. Multiple times.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ever the dad, Hotch just mumbles, “I’m not going to make a competition out of this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily, before Spencer can argue any further, Derek comes back into the room, making eye contact with Spencer until the latter breaks it. “Alright Pretty Boy, you ready to go on an adventure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does this adventure have to do with Delilah’s office?” Spencer drawls, already knowing the answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You betcha.” Comes the confirmation, along with an attempt at a smile. “We’re stopping back home first, though. You need shoes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing down, Spencer nods. “I guess I probably do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Probably’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely.” Spencer corrects, sinking down into the cushions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morgan,” Hotch suddenly speaks up, “You’ll keep me in the loop of this, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek doesn’t have to think twice. “One hundred percent. And I’ll make sure that Emily does as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Derek ushers Spencer out the door, the younger man does a quick turn to apologize, “I really am sorry for waking you up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hotch just shakes his head. “I told you, Spencer. I’m just glad that you came.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Doing his best to pull his lips into a smile, Spencer awkwardly waves, “Bye, Hotch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bye, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So far, the rides in Derek’s car have been filled to the brim with tension.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But compared to how Spencer feels right now, it feels like all of the others have been walks in the park. Spencer’s almost sure that he could suffocate in the tension.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The worst part is, Spencer doesn’t know how he’s supposed to fix it, or how he’s supposed to make it better. He’d probably be able to manage that with a time machine, but he certainly doesn’t have enough time to make one right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps for a summer project.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The streets are surprisingly busy, given that the sun has just barely begun to peak over the horizon, giving the world an orangish hue. If Spencer wasn’t focusing on his heart attempting to beat out of his chest, he’d think that it’s quite beautiful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Diana got worse, she’d point out all of the sun rises and sunsets in Nevada during the summer. Near the solstice, the horizon would be covered in pinks and purples, and Spencer used to watch in awe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer turns to Derek, about to question him, before he feels tears falling from his eyes. He doesn’t even know why he feels so emotional.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...It might have something to do with the complete and total break down less than an hour ago though. Now that he’s thinking about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly wiping his face with his sleeves, Spencer shakes his head, “‘M okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay to not be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing away from the road for just a second, Derek explains, “You don’t need to be okay all the time. No offense, but it’s pretty obvious that you’re not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want to be,” Spencer replies with a shaky exhale. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you don’t have to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer nods, turning his head away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s not a feeling that he’s exactly used to, to say the least. Since he was little, taking care of schizophrenic mom, Spencer’s never had the time to just fall apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Each day he needed to make sure that the bills were paid, that Diana ate food, that he finished all of his homework. His schedule didn’t include a time to break down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And even as he grew up, he never made time for it. Other than his short stint with Ethan, he never lived with anyone who could care for him when he needed it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except for right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time in Spencer’s life, he has time to just ignore the world around him and fall apart. But he’s almost forty years old.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t even know how to fall apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know what it’ll feel like to have someone waiting for him on the other side, with open arms. Someone who isn’t evil, someone who isn’t waiting to take advantage of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling his eyes away from a stoplight, Derek turns. “What’s goin’ through your head, Pretty Boy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With full honesty, Spencer answers, “I’m not sure yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Yet’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer looks back up at the orange sky. “But I think I’m going to figure it out.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>They grow up so fast, don't they????</p>
<p>Anyway I hope you liked this chapter, and please have a wonderful day! :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Don't Leave Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Every possibility in Spencer's life seems to be one that never ends well. But taking things into his own hands? This could be it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have like three projects and a test to do but instead I decided to write a bunch of fanfiction and post a day early lmao</p>
<p>For this chapter, trigger warning to allusions of sexual assault, and the word r*pe. As always, please stay safe, and don't read this if this could be triggering for you. Your health always, always comes first.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Spencer would rather be anywhere but here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s not even an exaggeration at this point. At least in prison he wasn’t forced to talk about his thoughts. At a crime scene he would have other things to focus on. If he was at Bennington, he could worry about his mom instead of himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But here, sitting on his therapist’s couch with one of his legs pulled up to his chest, he doesn’t have a choice of what to think about. Spencer excels at letting his mind wander, but it doesn’t seem to be much help at the moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every time he almost begins thinking of something else, the second hand on the clock behind him ticks once more. It’s as if the clock knows exactly when to bring back Spencer to the present. He hates it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He also hates the fact that the clock is behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Logically, Spencer knows that it’s so patients can’t see how much time is left, and it lets Delilah inconspicuously check the time. Still though, he hates it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s on your mind, Spencer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t like your clock,” He honestly answers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ever the pleaser, Delilah replies, “If you want, I can take it down and pull out the battery. Is it too loud?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of all of the responses, Spencer wasn’t expecting that. Maybe he’s losing his touch on profiling. Or maybe his brain has just been broken beyond repair. “It’s… fine. I don’t really mind it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Delilah nods. “You’ll let me know if it starts bothering you more?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer gives her a quick smile, and both of them know that he’s not going to say anything about it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a few more moments of silence, before Delilah starts up again. “Are you having any thoughts of suicide or self harm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear that. If you do, who can you talk to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sucking in a breath, Spencer looks away. The question itself isn’t bad by any means, but it just feels so patronizing. He can’t even put his finger on why it bothers him so much. “I can talk to Morgan or Savannah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah nods. “And if it’s an emergency you’ll call 911?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not going to kill myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think that you are,” She easily picks up the conversation, and Spencer can’t help but feel a hint of jealousy. He’s never been able to follow conversations that well. “But I want to make sure that you’ll be safe in case of an emergency.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you consider today an emergency?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cocking her head to the side, Delilah answers, “I’m not sure. I haven’t exactly heard what happened, apart from the fact that you needed an extra appointment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need it,” Spencer mumbles, as if he could say it and make it true.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That might be true. But whatever the case may be, you’re here, so we should make the most of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Damn therapists and their logical thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer kneads the threads of his pants between his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shuddering exhale, Spencer just shrugs. He absolutely hates the idea of being in trouble. It probably stems from the fact that he never got in trouble in his childhood, so he doesn’t know how to deal with it now- and honestly that could be something that Delilah could focus on instead of this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer doesn’t answer, Delilah continues, “It’s my job to help you, Spencer, but I’m not going to be able to without knowing what happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a friend,” Spencer winces as soon as the words come out. How are people supposed to start stories? Probably not like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Delilah nods. “Tell me a little bit about them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s basically just a series of facts. Spencer can handle that. “Her name is Mari. She’s seven and a half years older than me, and we met at CalTech during undergrad. She was a sophomore and I was a freshman, but we ended up graduating in the same spring semester because I skipped a year.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scribbling a few things down that doesn’t even look legible, Delilah asks, “Were you thirteen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I graduated?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” She shakes her head, “When you met Mari.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was twelve. It was the very beginning of the semester.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah nods. “Was she a good friend to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely,” Spencer answers without having to think twice. “Other than Michael, she was the first person that I could even consider my friend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer holds a breath, and only lets it go when Delilah doesn’t ask about Michael. He probably shouldn’t have even mentioned him in the first place. “I’m glad that you were able to make friends in college. It sounds like it would be difficult, given your age.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s quite a few ways that Spencer could respond, and he doesn’t know what the right one would be. “I’m very grateful for her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did something happen to her that was triggering this morning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a squint, Spencer cryptically answers, “Not exactly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you walk me through what happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer sucks in another breath, wondering when his lungs decided to just stop working. “We stayed in touch after undergrad, but we eventually drifted apart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I moved to go to school at MIT when she was in Indiana, and after that I moved to Virginia for the BAU. We still called each other, but we still drifted apart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was that recent?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer replies, “No. We stopped talking about a decade ago. After… After Georgia, I tried to call her, but she had a different number.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That must’ve been difficult for you to handle,” Delilah coaxes on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Spencer shrugs. “I’m not sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what happened this morning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Half ignoring her question, Spencer continues, “I had Garcia, our technical analyst, find her number, and I called her about a week ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Writing a few more things down, Delilah asks, “And how’d that go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Spencer replies, not exactly knowing how he should be expanding on that fact. “She was good. We talked for a bit. It was nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear that.” No matter what Delilah says, she always sounds genuine. It’s almost worrying how much she cares.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s a psychologist. Mari has a PhD in clinical psychology.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Delilah is offended that Spencer went to another person with a psychology degree, she doesn’t show it. “Does that make it harder for you to talk with her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really. I know that it’s something she can’t really turn off, but it just felt like talking with her when we were kids.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was Mari able to pick up on anything because of her knowledge of psychology?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s the kindest way anyone has ever asked Spencer if it was obvious he had some form of PTSD. Therapists seem good at that. “It doesn’t really matter, I told her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You did?” She sounds a little too surprised for Spencer’s liking, but he can’t blame Delilah. It’s not like he’s exactly open to talking about himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Backtracking, Spencer explains, “Sort of. Kind of. Not really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going to have to explain that to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told her I needed her help because she was an expert in psychology, but I didn’t tell her about the… things I’ve gone through.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah taps her pen against her paper. “You can say ‘traumatic events,’ Spencer. There’s nothing wrong or taboo about it, especially not here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pushing his lips to one side, Spencer just shrugs. He knows what she’s trying to do: trying to get him to accept the fact that he’s gone through certain traumas. “I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Letting it slide for now, Delilah questions, “So what did you need her expertise in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can feel his face blanch. He had gotten this far without mentioning it, and it was further than he thought. At some point Delilah would have to know. “...Repressed memories.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm,” She hums, making Spencer shrink down. “Well, I certainly applaud you for your perseverance, but when it comes to something that I specifically told you not to push, it is worrying to hear that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer finds a nice spot on the ground to focus on. “I know I messed up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not angry, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Delilah adds. “However, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>more concerned than I was earlier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I found a second opinion about repressed memories?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because you did so after I requested that you not,” Delilah corrects. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer continues looking down, feeling like now might not be the best time to tell her that he also tried to convince Rossi to help him figure out what happened. “I would probably do it differently, in hindsight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure you would,” Delilah nods, “But we can’t go back in time, only move forward. What did you and Mari talk about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning his palms over, Spencer replies, “She walked me through KIM. The Jewel Game.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Delilah has any strong opinions about that, she doesn’t say anything. “And this happened this morning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a frown, she questions, “Do you not remember?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She called me late last night. I don’t know the exact time when we began.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. So how did you start?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Olfactory memories.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah opens her mouth a few times, finding a question to settle on. “You said Mari was an old friend of yours, correct?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmhm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if she has a PhD in clinical psychology, she knows all of the other,” Delilah takes a breath, “Side effects of repressed memories, would you agree?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though Spencer knows exactly what she’s heading towards, it’s not like he could just lie out of it. “Yeah,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess my question is why she agreed to do this then. I’m sure she’s well aware of the dangers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not being able to stand looking at his hands anymore, Spencer slips them under his thighs. “I didn’t tell her about everything else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Meaning…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer swallows, before answering, “The whole reason why I’m not in work. Or any of the other things I’ve gone through.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah,” Delilah muses, clicking her tongue. “Because if she knew about your past, she wouldn’t have agreed to this, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rather than answer, Spencer just gives a quick nod, keeping his eyes on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not mad, Spencer. I’m really not. I’m just worried about how this affected you, okay? You’re not in trouble though, by any sense of the word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not going to hospitalize me, are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pausing, Delilah sets her notes down. “We haven’t had many appointments together,” She begins, “But in quite a few of them you’ve brought up hospitalization. More specifically, staying away from it. Why is that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dunno,” Spencer shrugs, even though they can both see through the lie. “I mean, nobody wants to spend time in a hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I certainly agree with that. But what is it, about you specifically, that makes you shy away from the idea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence falls over the two of them, until Spencer lets out a shuddering breath. “I know what it’s like for inpatients. Not from personal experience, but from research. And my mom.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is there something that you’ve learned that has scared you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shakes his head. “I’ve always been adverse to the idea of spending time in a hospital or a patient care facility because of my mom.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grabbing his file once again, Delilah coaxes, “But that’s not all, is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I used to like schedules. They were comforting. I think because I’m probably autistic. But I don’t like them anymore,” He admits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what changed that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Prison. It was more than just a schedule. It took away any sense of control.” Wincing, Spencer points out, “Which, I suppose, was the goal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Speed writing, Delilah scribbles down a few sentences before looking back up. “And the idea of losing control in a hospital is just as scary, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Delilah continues, not a second later, “Like all of my other patients, I don’t want to see you hospitalized. That’s never my goal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t say anything, already knowing that a, ‘but’ will be coming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sure enough, Delilah starts up again, “But, if it’s necessary, I will make the right decision.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need to be hospitalized.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then prove it to me. What happened with Mari? What made you make a decision that I specifically warned you against- a decision that ended with you in a catatonic state for the second time this week?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stomach folding into knots, Spencer wishes that he had another sweatshirt to cover it up. Anything. Even a thin blanket would be better than this. Finally, after a deep breath, Spencer begins. “I needed to know what happened to me before prison. I couldn’t remember anything after I crossed the border.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah just nods. “I’m listening,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everyone thought that it was because I was drugged- which I was,” He quickly explains, “But I had previously built up an immunity, in a sense. When I was twenty seven, my drug of choice was a strange concoction of three different ones. When I was addicted, I ended up becoming addicted to all three.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although it’s obvious that Delilah wants to say something, she doesn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I built up a resistance to the memory loss side effect of them first. For about a week I found a certain amount that got me high, but I could still remember. It might’ve helped that I have an eidetic memory, but I’m not sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did it bother you that you couldn’t remember what happened before prison, despite your eidetic memory?” Delilah questions, face hiding any emotions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer confirms, “Part of it was that. But the other part was that I think I was beginning to remember.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While her eyebrows crease together, Delilah questions, “What made you think that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I started to get dreams. Dreams where I would remember certain pieces of Mexico. I couldn’t remember any details, but if I dreamt about it, that meant that I had the memories somewhere,” He explains.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And once you got that confirmation, you were determined to find a way to remember all of them, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And when I didn’t agree to help you, you found another way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a question, but Spencer answers, “Yes,” anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re certainly resourceful. So what happened? After Mari agreed to help you, that is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It-” Spencer shrugs, “I mean, it worked. KIM is powerful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said you started with olfactory memories?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer nods. “Yeah, we went through all of the senses before getting to sight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you figured out what happened. The event that caused you to repress your memories in the first place, is that right?” Delilah asks, even though she already knows the answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not at first. But yes, I did find out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well then you know what I’m going to ask next,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer nods, bracing himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened? What did you go through that was traumatic enough for your brain to store them away as far as it could?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer slides his legs down from the cushion onto the floor, and finally looks up from the ground. “I was raped.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To Delilah’s credit, she doesn’t show any sense of surprise. Then again, she could be used to this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer frowns to himself. What a terrible thing to be used to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a deep breath, Delilah finds his eyes. “I’m so sorry that you were raped, Spencer. That’s an extremely difficult thing to process.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I repressed it,” Spencer blankly answers. “I don’t think I even attempted to process it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s an extremely traumatic event to go through. Repressing it is extremely understandable,” Delilah adds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But now I remember.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah confirms, “And when you remembered, you fell back into catatonia.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer breathes, “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah gives a shaky breath in, before starting, “Well, I’m glad that your friends were able to bring you out of it. I spoke a bit with Derek Morgan earlier this morning, he said that you ended up at a friend’s house?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer explains, “My old Unit Chief. Aaron Hotchner. We call him ‘Hotch.’” Spencer makes a face at himself, he knows that Delilah knows exactly who Hotch is. All of his brain seems to be scrambled this morning, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Although I’m glad you went somewhere safe, it’s extremely worrying to hear that you were out and about in the middle of the night, especially where you were, mentally.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer just hums.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Were you at Derek’s house when you and Mari spoke?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Biting her lip, Delilah writes a few things down, and Spencer has to physically stop himself from looking down at the file. Something tells him that he doesn’t want to know what she’s writing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As she looks up, Delilah asks, “And how did Hotch react to all of this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good?” Spencer frowns, “I mean, as good as one can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He doesn’t work at the BAU anymore, is that right?” After Spencer’s nod of confirmation, Delilah continues, “It was certainly lucky that he was home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmhm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think you would’ve done if Hotch wasn’t there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Spencer answers, “I’m… not sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How far away is Hotch’s house? From Derek’s, that is,” She further expands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Knowing the exact distance, Spencer stays quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Delilah presses, “Do you know what the distance is?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without malice, Delilah concludes, “But you don’t want to tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer feels like he’s just gotten caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Like deepening his voice to pay his mom’s bills when he was eleven. Or putting himself in front of a shotgun when he was twenty eight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As I said before,” Delilah starts, interrupting Spencer’s thoughts, “I’m not mad at you. I’m not angry. But in order for me to help you, I need you to be honest with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer wants to run. He wants to leave. He doesn’t want to be in this room anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How far away is Hotch’s house from Derek’s house?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As the crow flies, eleven point six oh three miles,” Spencer finally answers, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten even further. He wishes that Derek didn’t make him take off one of his pairs of socks, even though it was nearly black from dirt and riddled with holes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah makes a quick note. “That’s pretty far away, especially if you were walking. Derek said he thought you walked there. Did you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His tongue feels like lead in his mouth. “I- yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Delilah takes a breath, “I’m glad that you didn’t get hurt, walking without shoes in the middle of the night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Awkwardly looking away, Spencer adds a quiet, “Me too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quiet falls over the two of them, and while Delilah busies herself with notes, Spencer can’t do the same. Kneading the hem of his jacket between his hands, he finds himself just spacing out. Ordinarily Spencer would find a way to ground himself, but at the moment, he’s fine with just taking a quick break from the conscious world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How have your sleeping habits been?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After taking a quick second to process the question, Spencer just shrugs. “Normal? I think? I mean- not last night, obviously.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unsurprisingly, Delilah doesn’t look convinced. “How many hours do you think you get per night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe six? I’m not really sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you getting nightmares?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t really consider them nightmares.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah gives him a look, making Spencer realize that he probably shouldn’t have gone with that wording. “What would you consider them as?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Memories? I’m not really sure. I think they’re just normal dreams.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks away again, finding the same spot on the carpet as he did earlier. It doesn’t exactly look like a stain, but there’s some discoloration there. Possibly from mud, or something similar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again, Delilah is the one to break Spencer’s attempts at dissociating. “What are your thoughts on medication?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In terms of what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Spencer awkwardly replies, forcing his jaw to close. “I don’t really think it’s necessary.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah doesn’t miss a beat. “Tell me about that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sucking in a breath, Spencer tries to formulate a plan. He wasn’t expecting to be asked that, and now he has to create some elegant diversion so Delilah doesn’t question him about his mental state. Then again, that’s exactly what Delilah’s job is, and exactly what she’s been doing, so chances are, Spencer won’t really have a chance-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oops. Took too long to answer. “I just don’t think it’s necessary.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said the same thing about hospitalization. Is it a fear?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Delilah starts, folding her hands over one another, “I can tell you that I’ve seen a lot of improvements in my patients with the help of medications. It’s true that it’s not for everyone, but I think that it would be beneficial for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite Spencer’s urge to run and hide, he locks his jaw instead. “What kind?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Possibly an SSRI.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Humming, Spencer reports, “SSRI stands for ‘selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor.’ Most commonly known for anxiety or depression and other similar disorders, but are also used for bipolar disorder, and even ADHD. One of the most well-known SSRIs is fluoxetine, brand name: Prozac.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah looks at him, but doesn’t say anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dropping his head, Spencer quietly adds, “I read a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you done a lot of reading for medications?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Awkwardly avoiding the answer, Spencer replies, “Because of my reading speed, I end up reading a lot about everything. It’s only natural that medications came up at some point.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It wasn’t on purpose?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer grimaces. He’s often glad that Delilah’s good at her job, but it’s times like now that he would be okay with her being a little worse. “I researched a lot for my mom.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How would you feel about taking an SSRI?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can feel his heart beating through his chest, and he isn’t even sure why. Maybe medications would be helpful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not sending me to the hospital, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a frown, Delilah writes something down. “No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time since Spencer sat down on the couch, he finally feels like he can take a deep breath. He’s safe for now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Derek’s done helping Hank dress himself (it’s just the shirt that gives him trouble at this point), Spencer’s making devilish eyes at his prescription. He isn’t even trying to be inconspicuous about it either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding to it, Derek questions, “You ever gonna go cash that in, or are you just gonna spend your time looking at it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a response, Spencer just makes a noncommittal noise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen kid, I know you’re not happy about being medicated, okay? I get it. You watched your mom struggle with medications, and you don’t want to go through it yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, Spencer pries his eyes off of the paper, giving Derek a look of surprise. “How do you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something you may not know about me, is that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>a profiler. Remember that?” Derek teases with a raised brow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer doesn’t say anything in response, Derek slides down into the chair next to him, giving a quick glance to Hank, who’s happily petting Cloony on the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After Spencer returns his attention back to the prescription, it takes nearly a minute for him to speak up. “It just feels like I lost.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean, kid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without breaking his stare, Spencer explains, “I thought I could handle my head. All the things that go on in it. But now it feels like I… I don’t know. I probably sound stupid, don’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not at all,” Derek quickly answers. “See,” Derek points to the prescription, “This? This isn’t a sign of weakness. That’s a sign of strength.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help but give an empty chuckle. “I guess I just don’t see it the same way as you do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pretty Boy. Look at me,” The older man requests, and doesn’t continue until Spencer complies. “This isn’t a loss. By any sense of the word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been dealing with my head until now, why couldn’t I have just left it alone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek’s already talking before Spencer’s mouth shuts. “Kid, you haven’t been dealing with it. That’s the thing. Until a few weeks ago, your head has been tossing you around. But now? Now you’re working to get back in control.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quietly, Spencer admits, “It doesn’t feel that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Derek swallows. “I know it doesn’t. But I promise you, this is a sign of getting better. This is you working hard. Working harder than I’ve ever seen you do so before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tearing his eyes away from Derek, Spencer questions, “What if it changes me? What if I’m not myself anymore?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve read every paper about these meds, I know you have. You know that none of the side effects will change you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know it’s not logical,” Spencer replies, “But I’m terrified. I’ve seen my mom go through mood swing after mood swing, and I’ve seen dozens of meds fail her. What if the same thing happens to me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek just shakes his head. “It’s not going to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t be sure of that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yet I am.” Comes the quick response. “This is only going to help you. It’s not gonna change the little genius in you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking down, Spencer doesn’t really know how to reply. “I don’t know what to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then don’t think about what you need to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t understand,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t need to solve anything,” Derek explains. “There’s nothing you need to do right now, but just take a breath.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer stays quiet, but he can feel his stomach curl within his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Setting a hand down on the table, the older man continues, “Your entire life you’ve taken care of someone else. You’ve been the person to rely on, anywhere from taking care of a sick mom, or talking down an unsub with a gun. But right now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer feels his breath catch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right now you don’t have to worry about any of that. Just you. Just yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if a key had unlocked something within him, Spencer breaks down. Tears begin at the same time his chest heaves, all while sitting at a table to eat breakfast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I touch you, kid?” After a nod, Derek doesn’t hesitate to get up from the chair and hug Spencer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just like a few hours before, Spencer nearly sinks into his touch, body melting at the feeling. Somehow, it feels both unnatural and like he’s at home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shaky breath of his own, Derek soothes, “You’re okay. You’re okay, kid. Just let it out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know why I’m like this,” Spencer admits through tears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re Spencer Reid,” Derek smiles, “You don’t need to change a single thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer nods, before burying his head into Derek’s shoulder once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything feels simultaneously wrong and right, all at the same time. Nothing makes sense to Spencer, but for the first time, he’s okay with it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nobody’s life depends on his understanding, and Spencer bathes in the feeling. It’s wonderful. Wonderful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After minutes upon minutes of tears, Spencer makes his way upstairs, frowning at his dirty socks. As he gets into bed, he slips off the extra pair, letting his toes breathe a little bit easier. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The second his head hits the pillow, it’s obvious to Spencer how exhausted he feels. Somehow his brain ignored the feeling up until now. How though, Spencer won’t ever understand that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His legs ache, and the heels of his feet hurt, his throat feels dry and his nose is still wet. But Spencer somehow feels okay. He doesn’t know why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But maybe, it’s okay that he doesn’t know why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he closes his eyes, it isn’t with a frown, but a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nearly tumbling over his own feet, Spencer doesn’t think that he’s ever moved faster in his life. “Maeve?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smile growing on her face, she nods. “Yeah. Hi! How are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t think I was going to see you again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Maeve gives a light chuckle, “It’s not really my choice,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, Spencer’s own smile begins to fall. “Yeah. I- I guess it’s not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I’m here now. Don’t look a gift horse in the face.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve never been good with metaphors.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing the distance between them, Maeve just smiles. “Still love you, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer swallows, doing his best to bring his eyes up to meet Maeve’s. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry that you died.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maeve grabs his right hand, and doesn’t start talking until Spencer squeezes back. “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But it wasn’t enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was enough for me-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. You died.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking her head, Maeve points out, “You helped me, even when I told you not to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And look where that got you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I could do it all over again, I would.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing his eyes, Spencer frowns. “I don’t get it. Why? You’re dead. Why would you do it all the same?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got to see you,” She smiles, eyes crinkling with it. “The last thing I saw was you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never wanted it to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was out of your control. But you made it better for me. Dying wasn’t scary, Spencer. I promise,” Maeve adds, seemingly oblivious to Spencer’s tears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rather than formulate a reply, Spencer just shudders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With her own sniff, Maeve points out, “It’s okay to move on, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer knows what she’s getting at, but blatantly chooses to ignore it. Through broken breaths, Spencer points out, “I always thought it was well fitting that I fell in love with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maeve means intoxicating. I was an addict. It was like going back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you have to stop again now. I’m never coming back, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer lets his thumb fall from her hand. “I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not coming back. You can’t keep holding on to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then why are you here? I thought you had left for good, Maeve.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sad smile, she agrees, “I thought so too. But I guess I was needed for one last thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it? What’s left, that you haven’t told me already? That I haven’t told myself?” Spencer questions, feeling rather unsteady on his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That it’s out of your control.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer looks down. “I don’t- what? What’s out of my control? You leaving? I already knew that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Maeve shakes her own head. “Not just me leaving.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The world, Spencer. It’s out of your control. You try to spend every waking moment making a difference in the world.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Spencer pulls his hand completely back. “I know I do. It’s my only goal. I want to be making the world a better place- what are you getting at?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You keep trying to help the world without helping yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And saying goodbye to you is supposed to solve that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a start,” Maeve lightly chuckles. “Stop doing everything for everyone else. Stop holding on to me because of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer frowns, “I’m not. I’m doing it for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you’re not.” After all, she would know better than him. “You’re still holding onto love for me, as if I need it. And I don’t, Spencer. I’m dead,” She shrugs. “I don’t need to be loved.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tears falling down his cheeks, Spencer can’t even think of a response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you do, you’re still alive. And you must know it subconsciously, because I do. You have someone who loves you, just like what we had before. Let yourself accept it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t say goodbye to you,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to,” She plainly states. “Stop living in the past for memories of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a slow shake of his head, Spencer admits, “I don’t know how to live for myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You do. You just don’t realize it.” When Spencer doesn’t try to argue, Maeve gives him a sad smile. “You have my blessing, Spencer. As long as you try to care about yourself, I’ll keep Lindsey away up here,” She says, glancing at Spencer’s forehead. “I’ll be with you every step, even if you don’t know it. But you need to try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer wakes up with a shadow across his room, old sunlight lining the edges of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a quick glance outside, it’s easily deductible that he’s slept through the entire day into the evening. His sleep has been far from predictable lately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking down the stairs, Spencer hears the familiar pattern of Hank throwing things, and Cloony’s collar clinking as he eats them off the floor. It’s nothing but calming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprisingly, Savannah’s at the table. Spencer has no idea what her work schedule is, but it seems to be even more unpredictable than the BAU’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Pretty Boy. Good nap?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling his eyebrows together, Spencer points out, “I think that ten hours of unconsciousness is more than a nap.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You slept that long?” Savannah questions from beside Hank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Assuming the clock on your microwave is right, yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Impressive,” Derek snorts. “You want anything for dinner? Or lunch, </span>
  <em>
    <span>or </span>
  </em>
  <span>breakfast, seeing as how you’re missing meals like it’s goin’ out of style,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a wince, Spencer protests, “Not on purpose. And actually, I think that I’m going to need your help with something first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing at the prescription still sitting innocently on the counter, Spencer asks, “Drive me to the pharmacy?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ohohoho the comfort is finally here! I promise you guys that things will be getting less and less painful as the chapters progress, because we're finally here! Self acceptance! Learning to love oneself! All the good things! HUGS!!!!</p>
<p>Anyhow, I love you all very much! And if by any chance there's any cross in readers between this and Immovable Activities, that should be updated tomorrow!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Why Did This Even Happen?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Spencer's not sure what he should be doing with himself. He figures he may as well attempt to be productive.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello friends!! I'm so sorry for the late upload, and I promise I'll make this short so you can go read this chapter, but if you aren't following me on tumblr then you won't know that I had a pretty big bad seizure on last Friday, and the postictal was absolutely miserable. I took a few days off of prolonged screen time (which includes writing), and when I started up writing a few days ago I just ended up working on my original novel.</p><p>But all of that is in the past, and this is in the present, so please enjoy this chapter of Embers!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Hank is having the absolute time of his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t even understand how a human that small could be having so much fun, but it still brings a smile to his face. Lego people stand on top of HotWheels, which roll across bumpy ramps made of blocks, and Hank is truly thrilled at it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To make things even better, Hank never judges Spencer. Sure, he probably doesn’t have the brain capacity to psychoanalyze Spencer, but it’s nice nonetheless. Even though he’s thought about it before, it’s still weird that Hank is basically the only person that Spencer knows that won’t psychoanalyze him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that it’s his friends’ faults or anything. After all, Spencer knows better than anyone else that he can’t exactly turn off his profiling. It’s been a part of him since he was twenty, whether or not he likes it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With every side eyed glance that a stranger gives, Spencer can’t help but think about all of the profiles that they could fit into if they’re a serial killer. Something tells him that Delilah wouldn’t be too thrilled if he told her about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been treading lightly around the subject of Delilah, lately. Spencer knows how close he was to being hospitalized, and he also knows that it’s still not off the table. The problem is, every time he tries to convince Delilah that he’s absolutely fine, things seem to get worse. And it’s happened more than three times. That’s a pattern, not a coincidence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s nudged out of his thoughts when Cloony lays down next to the block tower, tail slowly wagging across the floor. It might just be the angle that Spencer’s looking at him, but Cloony’s snout seems to be even more gray than it was yesterday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that he’s not an expert on how long dogs live, Spencer can still give plenty of statistics about it. Cloony’s old. Old man old.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still though, that hasn’t stopped him from asking for scratches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting cross legged in the living room, Spencer can hear his phone buzz. Once, twice, three times, four times- Spencer stands up. Why is it that nobody just sends one text at a time? Granted, there’s so many things that Spencer doesn’t understand about social construct, but still, it seems a bit excessive.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Garcia told me to call you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But i know you dont like calling that much</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>So im texting you instead</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Did something happen?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Like something that she knows about?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>She seemed worried</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>As if he doesn’t have any control over his own face, Spencer can’t help but let his lips curl into a smile. It’s surprisingly nice having someone care about him that much. No wonder everyone else in the world seems to thrive on that.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Hi Luke, I’m doing okay</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Did Garcia say anything about it?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh good im glad youre doing ok</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And no she just said that i should check up on you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh wait</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>What?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Now that i think about it i think shes just trying to set us up</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh lol i guess i was worried about nothing</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Still, it’s nice that you care</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Yeah ofc i care!</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>We all care about yo ua lot</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>*you a lot</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Thanks</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>How is the case going?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Cold and windy</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Its literally summer but its somehow freezing up here</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Did you know that despite the fact that wind chill isn’t used in calculating temperatures, it’s the reason for most loss of body heat?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I did not</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>How does that work?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Wind chill is the factor of the amount of body heat that’s lost from the skin after coming in contact with the air.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh dang i thought it was just a more accurate temperature</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>In a way, it’s that too, but only to how our body reacts to temperature</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>No matter what the wind chill is, the temperature in the air isn’t dependent on that.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I literally had no idea</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Where do you learn that stuff lol</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I learned that during sixth grade after I finished my Earth Science homework for fifth period.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh wait, that was probably rhetorical, sorry.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Lol its all good!</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I like hearing about all of this</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>It feels like i didnt learn anything in school</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m sure you did</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Definitely not as much as you though</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Anyway i think i have to get back to the case now</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Im glad youre ok</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Garcia texted me and i guess i just freaked out </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Sorry if I worried you.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Good luck on the case</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding his breath for a few seconds, Spencer waits for a response, but it never comes. A second later, he feels childish. Luke has an important job to go to, obviously he doesn’t have the time to just talk with him all day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason the realization hurts more than Spencer thinks it ought to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While his phone is still in his hand, Spencer thinks that he may as well go for one more thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → E. Prentiss</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Can I consult on this case?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprisingly, Emily texts back almost instantly. Seems like Luke’s not the only one spending time in Montana on his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>E. Prentiss → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>no &lt;3</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → E. Prentiss</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Just consulting though. Nothing in the field</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>E. Prentiss → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Spence its literally been a day since you were like comatose</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Catatonic</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Whatever</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>The answer is no</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → E. Prentiss</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m feeling much better</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>E. Prentiss → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And im dead serious. The original one month isnt even up</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Im glad youre feeling better</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>No</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, Spencer doesn’t really know what he was expecting. Somehow though, it still hurts just the same. For his entire life, Spencer’s thrived on being needed. That’s the entire reason why he even has a job. His specialty was needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s he supposed to do in life if he isn’t even wanted?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the time when he was ten years old he’s had a job that had to be done. Whether it was taking care of a sick mother or catching serial killers, Spencer was needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The revelation that he’s not needed anymore shakes him to the core. Any happiness left from Luke’s kind words has instantly dissipated, leaving a space in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer isn’t a fan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of Hank’s blocks fall down, half of which reaching the edge of the carpet and hitting the wooden floor, making Spencer flinch. Oblivious to his uncle, Hank happily claps his hands together. In a strange turn of events, Spencer’s rather jealous of the toddler.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing makes sense in his life anymore, so that shouldn’t even be a surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing should be a surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should be expecting things. He’s a profiler, for God’s sake, he should know when all of these things and all of these thoughts and all of these </span>
  <em>
    <span>everythings </span>
  </em>
  <span>happen. It’s his job. His job where he isn’t needed, his family where he doesn’t belong, all of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take a breath, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t know when Derek appeared, but the sudden proximity to another person makes him jump. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Palms facing up, Derek coaches, “You’re about to hyperventilate. Take a breath, a long, nice and deep, breath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Albeit rather shaky, Spencer complies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. And another one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following the older man’s lead, Spencer complies, before his brain finally clears up. Half from light headedness and half from shame, Spencer nearly collapses into one of the kitchen chairs, dropping his head down into his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Setting Spencer’s phone to the side, Derek quietly asks, “What’s happening, kid? What’s goin’ on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t even know,” Spencer admits with a frustrated sigh. “I don’t get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” He replies again, cursing his own brain for not being able to communicate like he was merely minutes ago. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a small nod, Derek soothes, “Well, that’s okay. You don’t need to know. Emotions are confusing, kid, you know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer just gives a huff in agreement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Think it has something to do with the meds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First dose was today,” Spencer shakes his head, “That wouldn’t make sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Covering his tracks, Derek starts up again, “Even if there isn’t an obvious reason for it, it’s still fine, you know?” When Spencer doesn’t respond, he continues, “Sometimes it helps to just get your thoughts out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can talk to Cloony about it,” Derek shrugs. “He’s a great listener, I’ll tell you that much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silently, Spencer wonders how much Cloony has heard about Derek’s trauma. How much more the dog knows than anyone else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or you can write.” Spencer must unconsciously make a face, because Derek suddenly continues, “C’mon, don’t look at me like that. You’re practically already doing it. You write to your mom every day, that’s basically the same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shake of his head, Spencer admits, “I don’t want to burden her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not.” Comes the sudden answer. “I can promise you kid, you’re not a burden on her. You know that she loves your letters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer scoffs, “Because I don’t put all of my trauma into it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Derek smiles at him, Spencer wants to drop his head back to the table. Conversations are so confusing. Spencer has absolutely no idea what’s going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you smiling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You used the ‘t’ word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trauma,” Derek explains. “You never use that to talk about yourself, but you just did. I’m proud of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking away, Spencer picks at his nails. “What’s there to be proud of? Me being traumatized?” Although he’s certainly not the best at sarcasm, Spencer thinks that he’s gotten his point across.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe not though, when Derek responds. “You admitting that you’ve been through trauma. It’s a big step.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not really knowing how to respond, Spencer just makes a non committal noise. He waits for Derek to continue to carry the conversation, but when it never happens, Spencer speaks up himself. “I think I’ll write to my mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Derek adds, “I really am, you know,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Proud of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer really doesn’t know how to respond to that. By the time he’s almost formulating a response, Derek’s already gone, having a conversation with his son.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi, mom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you’re doing well. Sorry I didn’t write to you yesterday, it was a pretty rough day. I also slept through a lot of the daylight hours. You’ve always been a bit of a night owl yourself, sleeping through the days. Then again, I guess both of us sleep through the days because of mental illnesses.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer crosses everything out and starts again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi, mom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you’re doing well. I meant to write to you yesterday but I guess it just slipped my mind. It was a fairly busy day, but things have calmed down a bit now. It was kind of scary but if I’m being honest, I don’t remember much of it, which is something you can probably relate to.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer crosses all of his new words out as well. He grabs another paper and starts again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you’re doing well. I’m sorry that I didn’t write to you yesterday, but I know that you’ll understand. Things have been a bit stressful for me lately, but I think that it’s getting better. To some degree, at least.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I keep meaning to make plans to visit you, but I think that’s going to have to wait for a little bit longer. I promise that I’ll stop by soon, though. Maybe I’ll even bring a few new books with me. I’m sure you’re probably getting bored with the Bennington Library.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your last letter made me think of when I was little, before I knew what I was going to study. I figured it’d be something in math or chemistry, not psychology. If it weren’t for Mari, I don’t think I’d even be in this situation.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In more ways than one.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lately I’ve been thinking about what it’d be like if something was different when I was at CalTech. Not something massive, but just one small thing going differently. You know about the butterfly effect. I just can’t help but wonder what would be different if I changed only one thing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How different my life would be if I never met Gideon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I guess that’s a poor example, seeing as how that was a massive event in my life, but still. I have no idea where I’d be if I had never met Gideon. If he had never taken an interest in me. There’s no way I would’ve worked at the FBI.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d probably be sitting in an office with tenure, rather than lasting tinnitus. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s strange to think about.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Despite everything, I’m still glad that I joined the FBI. I’m still happy that I’m working as a profiler, solving murders and saving lives. But I’ve never done anything different, which is weird to think about.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I would even know how to do anything different. Sure, I’ve lectured here and there, but it’s never been my job. Maybe I’d be like Alex Blake, hopping between the FBI and lecturing, settling down with a nice man.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s a weird thought.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Which reminds me, I haven’t really talked about Luke with you, mom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I’ve mentioned Agent Alvez in some of my previous letters, and that’s who I’m referring to. Luke Alvez. He joined the team after Morgan left, which simultaneously feels like a decade ago and just a few days ago.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Garcia despised him at first, but that didn’t really last. She’s far too kind to hold grudges. But I guess, to be fair, most of us were a little weary about Luke at first. Obviously there was nothing wrong with him, but I think we all just missed Morgan.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Luke’s an incredible profiler. And there are similarities between us.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The same types of people that underestimate my strength also underestimate Luke’s intelligence. Both of us seem to surprise the general population, but for opposite reasons. He’s highly intelligent, despite what everyone, including himself, seems to think.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He sees the big picture, when no one else does. Where I see trees, Luke sees a forest.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think you’d like him a lot. Maybe when I’m feeling better I’ll bring him when I go visit you. Luke does look a little intimidating at first, but he’s extremely kind. He also has a dog.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her name is Roxy, and she’s just like Luke. Seemingly unassuming, but actually rather intelligent. She also looks a little intimidating, but she acts like a lap dog.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This letter seems to be getting out of hand already.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There is a point to all of this, even if it doesn’t seem like it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As you know, I’ve never been good at social cues, so I didn’t notice something very important. Evidently, Luke is attracted to me. Somehow, the rest of the BAU realized this before I did.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Although looking back at it, I guess that fact isn’t that surprising.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Luke’s kind, and I think I’m attracted to him as well, but it just feels so strange. I don’t know what it’s like to love someone like this. Other than Ethan, I’ve never had experience. What I had with Maeve was different.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know how I should be approaching him. I know that if I was talking with you in person, you’d know exactly what to do. Somehow, even though we’ve both read the same literature, you’ve always understood love better than I.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope I’m not overthinking this. Lately it’s been brought to my attention that I do a lot of overthinking.  I didn’t realize how obvious it was. Then again, my only friends are profilers who are trained to see these types of things.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Makes me wonder how someone who wasn’t a profiler would see me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you a lot, mom. And I know I say this in the beginning of all of my letters, but I really hope that you’re doing okay. Part of me still wants to sit down and try and find a cure to schizophrenia, even though now that I’m older I understand that’s not how your illness works.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My only wish is that you stay happy. I know that you’re getting more sick, but I’m trying to push that aside. As long as you’re happy, there’s really no problem with your illness.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll find a way to visit you soon, I promise.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, Spencer blinks out tears that threaten to fall. Now’s not the time to be crying. He’s been crying far too often lately, and it’s getting rather dull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No wonder everyone’s been trying to get him to drink water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After sealing and stamping the envelope with his mother’s letter, Spencer’s a loss of what he should even be doing. It feels like that there’s a million things that should be done in the world, but Spencer can’t bring himself to do any of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However rather than feeling anxious from that fact, Spencer almost feels… calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s strange. A feeling that he can barely even place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With nothing better to do, Spencer walks himself out to the backyard, finding a spot in the middle of the grass to sink into.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though Spencer knows the science of it, the fact that the grass is cool to the touch underneath the sun feels like magic. Ordinarily Spencer would hate the texture of grass, but there’s something about this that does the opposite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost soothing, in a way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So naturally, Spencer shouldn’t even be that surprised when it ends just as it begins. Even though his phone is on vibrate, the noise makes Spencer wince. Everything is a bit much today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Lo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Reid, it’s Hotch,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer frowns for a second, questioning himself why he didn’t just check the caller ID before answering the phone. “Hi Hotch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence before the older man answers, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“How are you feeling? Honestly. Not just something to make me happy.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure,” Spencer sighs. “I feel confused, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“About what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the thing. I’m not sure. The feeling is just,” Glancing to the grass underneath him, Spencer quietly finishes, “There.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch hums on the other end before asking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Is there anything I can do? Anything to help?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, Hotch, you’ve already done so much for me. There’s nothing that you need to do,” Spencer quickly answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a self deprecating laugh, Hotch counters, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“That’s not really true though, is it?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I spoke with Prentiss a bit,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He starts, which doesn’t do anything but put Spencer further on edge, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“And it made me realize that I ignored so many things when I was Unit Chief.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though the recipient can’t see it, Spencer shakes his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were a great Unit Chief.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m honored that you think that, Spencer. But the truth is, I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve pushed you to get help.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. Hotch, you had so many things going on in your life. And you have a kid, someone who needs you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch lets out a long sigh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m just- I’m sorry, Spencer. Even if you don’t realize it, I need to apologize.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that Spencer still isn’t quite sure about any of this, he still answers, “If you feel the need to, then you should know that I forgive you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation finds itself in a lull, neither man knowing how to continue. Eventually, Hotch is the one to pick up the slack. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I talked with your friend Mari a little bit more,”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“She’s going to come by Virginia to meet everyone.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“And check up on me,” Spencer finishes the unspoken words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch just gives a shallow chuckle. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Your words, not mine.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“When is she coming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not really sure. Mari said that she’d text you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Spencer nods. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s another short bout of silence, before Hotch speaks up, “Are you sure you’re doing okay? Especially after yesterday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure. I’m a lot better than yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, Spencer, if you ever feel that same way, you can always show up at my house, got it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s obvious that Hotch isn’t going to let Spencer debate this, so the younger man skips any argument. “Got it. Hopefully I won’t, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But if you do,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I can go to your house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For caring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch is quiet for a few moments. “Of course. Call me if you need anything, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Bye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bye.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a swallow, Spencer pulls the phone away from his ear, rolling it between his hands. Nothing in his life makes sense, and he can tell that it’s putting him on edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like his worst fears are finally coming true: everyone that he knows is acting strange around him. Ever since he got close to the team when he was twenty five, he’d been terrified that they’d one day notice something and act differently around him, just like his old classmates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now it’s finally happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not bothering to put it back in his pocket, Spencer just lets the phone rest on the grass beside him. He didn’t know how to change people’s views on him at the public schools, and he still doesn’t know now. It’s like falling back in the past, and Spencer hates it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s his biggest fear, losing his family, and now it’s come true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer knows how it starts. First they’ll just try and mask it with being overly kind, but before he knows it, all of his family will just be treating him differently, finding excuses to stay away, anything to get rid of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A truly terrifying thought, but Spencer can’t do anything about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer spends nearly the entire rest of the day playing with Hank and petting Cloony, but he can’t shake the feeling of something looming over him, no matter how hard he tries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evidently he’s not hiding it well, because Derek sits him down on the couch after putting Hank to bed, and based on the looks he’s giving, Spencer isn’t going to be moving any time soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s up with you, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feigning ignorance, Spencer questions, “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been acting weird all day. Did something happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been with me all day,” Spencer frowns. “You’d know if something happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a small smile, Derek muses, “I meant something in that big brain of yours. If something happened up here,” He adds, pointing to Spencer’s forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanna try the truth this time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer sends him a look, but isn’t able to keep eye contact, losing any effect he was trying to achieve. “Nothing really happened today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why’ve you been acting like this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shrug, Derek points out, “Withdrawn? Quieter than usual. Something must’ve happened, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer just scrunches his nose. “I think you’re overreacting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I am,” The older man replies, without missing a beat. “Talk to me, kid. Did something happen with the team?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sucking in a breath, Spencer holds it for a few seconds, before shakily exhaling. “What do you think would’ve happened to me if I never became a profiler?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Derek’s credit, he doesn’t show any indication of surprise. “In terms of what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘M not sure. I guess saying ‘everything’ would be too large of a sample. I just-” Huffing in frustration, Spencer attempts to compile his thoughts, “Profiling is all I’ve done in my life. I have no idea what it would be like without it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean,” Derek gives an empathetic sigh, “I know that it’s scary. For the longest time I thought that my entire life was gonna be football. But after I hurt my leg, I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing with myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer questions, “How’d you deal with it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At first? Poorly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer hums, but doesn’t say anything, hoping that the older man will continue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And a few seconds later, he does. “I was angry at everything, angry at my mom, at my sisters, even my dad, which didn’t even make a lick of sense. But life still went on, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Logically, yes. But it still feels weird waking up every day and not going into work. It’s been weeks since I’ve looked at a board of evidence. The only other time that’s been the case was when I was in prison.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek winces, and Spencer doesn’t blame him. It’s not exactly a fun topic to think about, let alone talk about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Profiling just randomly came up for me. If you told me in highschool that I’d be working for the FBI I would not have believed you, even for a second. But it still happened. We don’t really get to choose the path that we take,” Derek adds, even though it’s not as soothing as he thinks it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After staying quiet for a few moments, Spencer admits, “I feel like I should have a hobby or something. Other than just sitting around being traumatized.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re dealin’ with stuff, kid,” Derek points out, “It’s okay to not be productive. You realize that, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna take that as a ‘no,’” Derek replies, but not without a grin. “Listen to me real closely, got it?” After Spencer’s nod, he continues, “You don’t need to be solving world hunger or curing cancer, just because you aren’t working. Sometimes just making it through the day is a victory in itself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Spencer nods, he still counters, “It just feels so dull, not doing anything. I don’t know what I should be doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the thing. You don’t need to be doing anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he gets in response is a shrug. “That’s not something that has a perfect answer. Something will come to ya, I promise. You can’t force a hobby, or anything like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I could,” Spencer mumbles. “I feel so useless, getting up and doing nothing all day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Again, you’re not doin’ nothing. You’re healing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer makes a noncommittal noise, but otherwise doesn’t say anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m dead serious, Pretty Boy. You can trust me when I say that I know it’s hard work. You need to slow down and heal, just like a physical injury.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never done that for a physical injury either,” Spencer points out, completely missing the point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sharp chuckle, Derek nags, “That’s a bit of a problem in itself, kid. Just, I don’t know, think about it in terms of someone else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like when Haley died. It was awful, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With gulp, Spencer nods, “Yeah,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And other than a few scrapes and bruises, Hotch wasn’t physically hurt, right? But he still needed time to heal. It’s just not all visible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s different,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” Derek asks, not a second later. “Explain to me how?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of the words stuck in Spencer’s head just float around, determined to not make a comprehensible sentence. “I- I don’t know. It’s just… not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spencer,” The usage of his name catches the younger man’s attention, and Derek doesn’t continue until he finds his eyes. “You need time to heal. Coping with this… it isn’t optional, you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer reiterates, “Logically I understand that. But I just- I can’t,” He cuts himself off with a huff. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All you need to be worrying about right now is yourself. Not the BAU, not your mom, not Cat, nothing else. Just you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It feels weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a smile, Derek muses, “Self-care is a hell of a drug.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Better than dilaudid, I assume.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a fond wince, Derek questions, “You crackin’ jokes at me, now, Pretty Boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Figured I’d try my hand,” Spencer smiles back. Before Derek can say anything else, Spencer opens his mouth, “I’m… Thank you, Morgan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘S no problem, kid. You know that’s what I’m here for.” After Spencer gives him another smile, Derek nods to the stairs, “You should get some sleep. Unconsciousness does wonders for the soul, let me tell you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a face, Spencer points out, “It’s not actually the act of being unconsciousness that gives humans energy, which is why exhaustion is common after-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, Pretty Boy, but I don’t need the details. Just get some sleep, ‘kay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got it,” Spencer nods, before dutifully walking up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Between the clothes and a couple of books thrown around the floor lately, it’s looking less and less like part of the Morgan household, and more like Spencer’s own space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t really sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. At the moment, he supposes that it’s just… a thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One layer of socks tonight, he can do it. Just one small little layer of cotton and nylon, but he’ll be fine. Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s dealt with less layers before, this is completely doable. Besides, he’ll be unconscious, so he won’t even notice it. Then again, he’ll be unconscious, which means that he won’t be able to protect himself if something does happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing will happen, because he’s safe in the Morgan household.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s better than fine. Safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer puts on another layer of socks and pretends that he hasn’t lost a war with himself. At least when he pulls his weighted blanket up to his neck he feels a little better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhat better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he closes his eyes, Spencer can’t help but wonder who will be waiting for him in his dreams tonight. Even though he’s not expecting Maeve, Spencer still can’t help but want her back. It’s probably not the healthiest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, at this point, he’ll take anything that isn’t Lindsey or Cat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Spencer opens his eyes, he lets out a breath of relief. Neither Lindsey nor Cat are here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, as it stands right now, nobody is near Spencer. He’s in his childhood home, complete with old physics textbooks and a flashlight for nighttime reading. It’s a little weird to be back, but Spencer doesn’t mind too much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a quick look around, Spencer confirms that there are no other beings. Not even his mom, which makes this dream feel a bit less fake. The last time Spencer was here without Diana was when he was throwing everything away, attempting to sell the house at eighteen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mutely, Spencer wonders who ended up buying it. It’s not in the nicest neighborhood, sure, but it’s still a halfway decent house. It even has a fire pit in the backyard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However when Spencer takes a glance at it, he involuntarily steps back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no fire going, but bloody clothes still cover the coals. He can almost feel himself watching from the window, wondering at such a young age what his parents got into.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sliding door seems to be heavier, but it doesn’t end up being much of an obstacle for Spencer. The problem begins when Spencer reaches out towards the clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that there aren’t any flames, the fire pit is scorching hot, so much so that Spencer can’t reach in to pluck the clothes up. Without a good way to grab the shirt and jacket, Spencer just watches as invisible flames eat up evidence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mind wandering, Spencer thinks about methane fires, nearly invisible in the day. He’s pretty sure that his dream is just screwing up memories, and this wasn’t a methane fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could test that theory with a few household items to form a chemical reaction, but Spencer would rather not commit arson in his dream. At least, not yet. Maybe it’ll come down to that at some point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the last bits of thread go up in flames, Spencer turns back around, only for his house to be gone. Instead, in its place, is the park by his highschool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The majority of highschoolers came here to smoke, or to just simply get away from their parents, but it’s always been a bit of a safe haven for Spencer. At least it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he knows about Gary Michaels praying on him here, it sends shivers down his spine. Spencer’s always wondered how many times he thought he was safe, only to have a child predator watching merely feet away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking the thought from his head, Spencer sighs. That doesn’t matter now. For just like his house, nobody is around. It’s just Spencer, with the old jungle gym in the middle of the park, and a few chess tables around the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not exactly sure what else he should be doing, Spencer finds one of the tables to sit down on, moving the first white pawn. He plays a few more moves, before frowning at the board in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without knowing how, Spencer knows exactly how this game will end. It’s an extremely unsettling feeling, and defeats the point to why Spencer loves chess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlike checkers, it’s not a solved game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are billions of ways for a game to play out, yet after every first move, Spencer knows exactly where the checkmate will be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He plays game after game after game, but still, he isn’t able to get anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frustrated, Spencer attempts to replicate his first game, only for the pawn to not move. It’s as if someone had superglued it to the table, preventing it from moving even a millimeter. After a quick test, all of the other pieces have found themselves sedentary as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer stands to check the next chess table, but after the very step, his dream dissipates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And instead all he sees is the dark ceiling of the Morgan’s guest room.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>One last thing: I'm so sorry I haven't gotten to your comments from last chapter but I promise you that I will, so fear not! I read each one multiple times over and they just bring such a smile to my face and keep me inspired and I just love you all so much and I promise that I'll be replying to them in a second &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>Also if anyone has any theories about Spencer's dream I'd love to hear them!</p><p>Take care, I love you all &lt;3333</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. For Every Action,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Healing is not linear, and unfortunately for Spencer, the world is still out to get him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! I hope everyone's having a good day, and I'm very very excited to bring you this chapter! Before you read, please know that at the end there are allusions to sexual assault, as well as sexual favors, so if that triggers you, please don't read! As always, your health is infinitely more important!</p><p>My singular goal for this chapter is to make you shiver and shudder at least once.<br/>...Enjoy! :D</p><p>(PS, there's a super tiny AQR reference in here)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Although he can’t quite place it, something feels off to Spencer. A nagging feeling that there’s something that just isn’t quite right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has him on edge from the moment he wakes up, and no matter what he does, Spencer can’t rid the feeling. No distraction in the world manages to get him out of his head. Not even therapy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How have the last couple of days been?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer thought it was excessive to have two appointments a week, but he’d greatly prefer that to the new three times per week. “I don’t know. Normal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you had any thoughts of suicide or self harm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the other thing that Spencer’s not too fond of. Ever since he’s gotten back his memories, Delilah keeps asking him that. Logically he knows that there’s nothing wrong with the question, but it still makes him feel worse. The reminder that he could fall into those categories at any time. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delilah smiles. “I’m glad to hear that. If you ever do, who can you talk to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer feels like a child. “The Morgans.” Before she can continue, Spencer beats her to the chase, “And if it’s an emergency I’ll call 911.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. How are you feeling right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pushing his lips to one side, Spencer just shrugs. He wonders if this paranoia is how his mom always feels. “I’m not really sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First thing that comes to your mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tired?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think that it’s a physical or mental tiredness?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a frown, Spencer honestly answers, “A combination, maybe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we can work with that. Have you been getting good rest lately?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah questions, “About how many hours per night do you think you’re getting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer could probably give an exact amount of minutes, down to the hundredth place, but he knows that this isn’t the time nor place. “Around five hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not too bad,” She bobs her head back and forth, “But ideally you’d probably want a little more. Do you think that’s doable?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation, but Spencer doesn’t mind. If he’s being completely honest, he’s not in much of a talking mood at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delilah, on the other hand, doesn’t feel the same way. “You seem particularly guarded today. Did something happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Spencer shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I do anything to make you uncomfortable?” She asks next, even though Spencer would prefer that she just won’t say anything. “You can always be honest with me if I’m making you uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Picking at the seam of his pockets, Spencer shakes his head again. “You haven’t done anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s just something about today, huh?” She smiles, zero malice in her voice or on her face. Even though Spencer knows he should expect it, Delilah’s kindness and empathy always seem to take him by surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so,” Spencer swallows. “Today just doesn’t feel right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah continues, “We all have those days. It’s not anything weird, especially given the stress of the last couple of days for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer just gives a hum as a response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll make this an easy going appointment, okay? Nothing too stressful or uncomfortable. Does that sound like a plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer confirms, “Sounds like a plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice,” She smiles. “Well, why don’t you tell me some of the good things that have happened the past few days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything,” Delilah answers. “Anything that didn’t result in something negative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t have to think too hard to find an answer for that one. “My nephew always corrals me to play with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How old is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just under two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delilah hums. “Has he begun crawling all over the furniture yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not so much,” Spencer answers with a smile. “He’s more into the fine motor skills. There’s a lot of wooden block towers being made.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a smile of her own, Delilah muses, “That sounds easy to contain. When my youngest was that age, she decided that running wasn’t nearly a cool enough skill, and acted like the entire house was a rock climbing gym. She was like a spider.” She waits a few moments before continuing, “What are some other positive things that have happened the past few days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been talking with Luke more. Well, texting. Not technically talking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Luke’s on your team, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer nods. “He’s uh, he’s a good friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delilah could probably be a profiler of her own. “Just a friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking up, Spencer questions, “Is it that obvious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been doing my job for a long time,” She grins. “And I take it that I’m not wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are… not wrong,” Spencer concedes. “He is romantically attracted to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever the therapist, Delilah asks, “And how do you feel about that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hiding a grin, Spencer replies, “I certainly don’t dislike it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has he been helping you get through these past couple of weeks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then he sounds like he’s pretty decent friend material, if not boyfriend material.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer agrees with a nod. “It’s weird though. I think I feel the same way, but I’m not sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Walk me through your thoughts. What aren’t you sure about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Biting his lip, Spencer shrugs. “I know it sounds strange, but I don’t really know how to feel about love. It’s not something that I’m used to,” Frowning, he quickly adds, “That came out a lot sadder than how I meant it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you worried about love itself, or all of the things that come with it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Things like physical affection, reliability, spending lots of time together. Those types of things,” She clarifies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer takes a few moments to think about it, but ultimately he doesn’t get any further. “I’m not exactly sure. I don’t have the greatest past when it comes to love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to tell me more about that?” She asks rather quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although part of him would rather do anything but, Spencer figures that he’ll need to get through it at some point. “I’ve really only dated two people,” He starts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you worried that Luke has more experience?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m worried that this relationship is going to end the same way that my other two did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t have to be asked twice. “Badly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning a piece of paper, Delilah muses, “That’s a rather open statement. What went bad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Spencer frowns, “I guess Ethan’s wasn’t that bad. But he did break up with me, and then suddenly disappeared a few months later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And my guess is that Maeve was the other person that you were romantically interested in?” It’s safe to assume that Delilah hasn’t exactly forgotten about that particular appointment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer quietly answers, “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Delilah takes a deep breath, “In some sense of the word, we never know how love is going to end. Even when we’re not all government agents with dangerous jobs,” She adds with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer forces a smile to come to his face, but they both know that it’s dangerously forced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We all have to take a bit of a chance when it comes to love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But every time I try it always seems to end in a disaster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delilah takes her notes off her lap, moving them out of the way to her desk. “So real the real question is, are you willing to take another chance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s suspiciously quiet at the table, a stark contrast to the Morgans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank’s currently doing his best rendition of a renaissance painting with reheated pasta on the table, much to Derek’s dismay. “Look!” The boy happily points.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Little Man,” Derek starts, praying for patience, “I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you. But the food goes in your mouth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two have a small stare off, before Hank grabs all of his pasta from the table and does his best to put it in his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Derek fondly notes, “That can’t be sanitary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It probably isn’t,” Spencer acknowledges, “But it’s a good way to boost immune systems and prevent allergies from popping up later in life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By now, Derek’s learned to not question Spencer. “Well in that case,” He turns to his son, “Eat up, Little Man, eat up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank grins back, noisily chewing. Cloony marches himself under the kid’s seat, hoping for any scraps to fall. He’s lurking as if he wasn’t fed less than an hour ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you,” Derek points, shaking Spencer out of his thoughts, “Also need to eat something. You’ve barely touched your food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Spencer’s first thought is to argue, he begrudgingly begins eating. His new meds have suppressed his appetite, something that he couldn’t really afford to lose. It’s just uncomfortable now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daddy, look!” Hank exclaims, doing his best so slurp up a piece of pasta without using his utensils. Or his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>taking a bath after this,” Derek murmurs, but he has a smile on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, a few minutes later when Hank’s done devouring his food, Derek takes him upstairs to clean alfredo sauce off his… well… entire body. However he doesn’t leave without a minor threat to Spencer if he doesn’t finish eating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of Spencer is tired of Derek’s mother henning, but the other part can’t help but feel a little bit safer from it. It’s a nice mix, he decides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giving a look to the food, Spencer unplugs his phone from on top of the counter, not exactly looking for anything. That’s what normal people do, right? Just look at their phones?</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Hey so garcia told me to text you again</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Shes like kinda freaking out and i dont know why</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But she keeps telling me to check up on you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Did something happen?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, Spencer sets his phone back on the table. He knows that Garcia sent a file to Hotch, and there’s no way that she didn’t snoop around a bit. It’s usually one of the quirks that makes Spencer admire her. It’s a little different when it comes to his life, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to lie to Luke, he really doesn’t, but Spencer loathes the idea of having to explain what happened. A lie will come back to bite him, but it’s got to be better than explaining something like this over text.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I think that Garcia might be overreacting a bit</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>In reality, Spencer thinks that she might be in the clear as far as her reactions. Honestly he’s surprised that she hasn’t sent the whole team to check up on him. He supposes that Garcia probably stopped herself after realizing what had happened to Spencer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought makes him shiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Im still kinda worried</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>She seemed really freaked out on the phone</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You talked with her?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Who knows what she could’ve said. It’s not that Spencer’s trying to keep what happened in Mexico a secret, it’s just. Something he doesn’t want to talk about. Ever. Or have anyone in the world know about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, so on second thought, Spencer might be trying to keep it a secret.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>She called me last night</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>When in doubt, avoidance works great.</span>
</p><p>
  <strong>S. Reid → L. Alvez</strong>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>How is the case going?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Have you gotten any closer to discovering the unsub?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>The case is okay</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Theres a lot of busy work to get through with the evidence</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Because the local precinct wasnt very diligent with their bagging</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Am i allowed to say stuff like that?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>As long as it’s not anything classified you’re able to talk about it</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh good</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I dont want to like go to jail or anything because im talking with you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help but flinch at his words. Jail isn’t something that he wants to be thinking of. And when jail exists, so does Mexico. And Mexico </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn’t something that he wants to think about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he should use some avoidance tactics on his own mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I wouldn’t worry about jail time</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Haha good</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But you didnt answer me earlier</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Is everything ok?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You said garcia was just overreacting but having a reaction meant that something had to happen</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Right?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did Spencer think it was a good idea to only have friends as profilers? Oh right, because otherwise he wouldn’t even have friends. At least he has Hank and JJ’s kids. And Cloony. They don’t ever look into everything that he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Spencer rubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t even know why he’s getting so defensive internally. Luke just cares about him. There’s nothing wrong with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other than the fact that most of the other people who have cared about him have gotten shot, and stabbed, and even ended up dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is why the world is an evil place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a reason why Spencer was so weary about spending time near Hank, but he somehow forgot about it. Therapy’s helping, sure, but he needs to stay diligent about becoming close to Hank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bad things will happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world, with its grabby little hands will eat Hank up and spit him out, just like it does to everything else good in the world. It’s dangerous spending time near Spencer, and he knows that for a fact. Nothing ever ends well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning over his phone so it lays face down on the table, Spencer awkwardly stumbles out of the chair to the door to the back yard. He’s not dumb enough to leave without telling Derek (that might be the final straw for hospitalization), but Spencer can’t stend another moment inside of the Morgan household. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The backyard is the best place he can be at the moment, even if it’s not exactly ideal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer lets the cuffs of his sweatshirt hang over his fingers, keeping them away from the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Spencer knows that he can’t continue like this. Whether or not he likes it, Spencer’s putting all of the Morgans in danger. He’s putting Hank in danger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a terrible thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what’s even more terrible is the fact that he seemed to have forgotten it sometime the past week. Spencer doesn’t ever want to forget about the sad truth of the world. Because when he does, people get hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>People get hurt around Spencer. At his point, it’s just a fact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A terrible fact, sure, but nonetheless still true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t like how the grass feels anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s no longer cool and soft, no longer a pillow to rest on. Now it seems like it’s really taken advantage of the name ‘blades’ of grass. It feels as if each of the pieces could cut him up if he didn’t have his armor on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything in his mind is telling him to leave, to get away as far as he can from the innocence in the Morgan household, but Spencer knows that he can’t. The repercussions would be too great. The positives would be instantly outweighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His life is like a game of chess, one wrong move, and he’ll find himself in a checkmate. Although leaving now seems like the right idea, in four moves it could result in something catastrophic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only problem is, Spencer doesn’t know what the right move even is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are so many things that could go wrong, so many people who can get hurt, and Spencer doesn’t know how to keep them all safe. If only his brain could work better, faster, then maybe he could keep his loved ones alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it seems like no matter what he does, all of his family still seems to be taken hold by the evil world around him. By now, Spencer should’ve learned his lesson. Hell, he should’ve learned his lesson back in highschool when he would wave to Michael in the halls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A plethora of things have gone wrong since then, yet Spencer’s done nothing to try and stop them. All he’s doing is just goading the world on, begging it to ruin the life of more people. He feels like famine, slowly eating away at his family’s humanity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer swallows. He can’t do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can make a decision not to, he grabs a paper and pen from inside, before finding himself back on the porch. There’s no ideal writing surface, so Spencer just suffices for sitting on the ground and ruining his back as he looks down.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi Mom,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I miss you a lot, and I hope you’re doing okay. Hopefully I’ll find time to visit you soon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m always worried about you, but I know that Bennington is taking good care of you. I assure you that nobody there is stealing the lightbulbs. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What have you been reading lately? I think that I might start going through my library soon, because I don’t have much else to do in my free time. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So far I’ve just spent it doing nothing, bored out of my mind. I think the problem there is that I end up spending too much time in my head. You probably know how that feels.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know that I’ll get through my books rather quickly, so it’d be fun to know what you’re reading. That way we could read it at the same time, just like we did when I was younger. I still remember sitting on your bed as you read Vonnegut to me. It’s one of my favorite memories.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That being said, you know that I don’t read much Vonnegut anymore. Somehow it still gives me the creeps. Strange, given the fact that I think I’ve seen much worse in the real world.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A lot of things strike me as strange these days, now that I think about it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m also on medication now. It’s only been a few days, so I don’t really know if it’s been working, but it’s a little scary. I know that you’d worry, but I promise you that I’m not being poisoned. I know the pharmacist, and I promise you that my bottle was sealed, so you don’t have to worry about that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know that it had always been your concern when I was younger.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I haven’t outright said it yet, but I’m not working right now. I haven’t been working for two weeks. I thought that I’d be back sooner, so I didn’t mention it in my earlier letters. Now though, I’m fairly convinced that it’ll be weeks until I’ll be able to come back to the BAU.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We had a case in Texas a couple of weeks ago, and something went wrong. Since then I’ve been living with the Morgans, as you know about. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Although you’ve probably pieced together everything from my letters, I still wanted to tell you that I haven’t been working. You deserve to know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been sort of rough, but overall okay.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I get to spend a lot of time with my godson, Hank. He has a strange love for throwing food, but it’s more endearing than anything else. Then again, it would probably be less endearing if I was the one cleaning up his messes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>At the moment, I have the best of both worlds. I get to spend time with Hank, without having to do all of the difficult parts of parenting. It’s a lot different than when I took care of Henry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I worry that Morgan doesn’t really trust me with Hank. Often times, I’m never alone with him. And even when I am, it’s for a short period of time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe I’m just overreacting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I’d rather be safe than sorry, though.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know I can take care of a child, after all, there’s a reason why Henry and I are so close, but</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatcha doin’ out here, Pretty Boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearly jumping, Spencer blinks up at Derek a couple of times. “Not much. It’s… nice outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding to the paper beside him, Derek questions, “‘You writin’ to your mom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess so,” Spencer shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m going to send it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” He shrugs again. “I just- I’m not sure.” Huffing, Spencer pulls his eyes away from both the paper and his friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Settling down on the patio next to Spencer, Derek points out, “It’s all good, whatever you decide. You know I’m not gonna judge you, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” Does he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence, before Derek starts up, “Usually you’re sittin’ on the grass. Something change?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just didn’t feel like it today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a hum, Derek asks, “Mind if I sit out here with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s Hank?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Upstairs taking a nap. Almost joined him,” The older man adds with a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he has to force himself to do so, Spencer flashes a smile. Based on Derek’s reaction, he didn’t do a good enough job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rather self conscious, Spencer pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, doing his best to hide his fingers. He can be safe like this. Away from the prying eyes and evil hands determined to reach him yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t even know why he tried to start taking off his layers. By now, he should know that nothing good happens from that. Patterns don’t just change. That’s the entire reason why they’re called patterns in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Never ending, never changing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patterns used to be soothing for Spencer. Now though, now they’re just a reminder of the wicked world around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he loses his armor, bad things happen. It’s not correlation, it’s causation. The world is going to take advantage of every time Spencer sheds a layer. He’s a fool to think that anything different could result.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has one job right now, and that’s to protect the people around him from the evil that he brings. The best, and frankly only way, is to keep his armor on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world’s hands reach for him the second his layers come off, and then his friends get caught in the crosshairs. If he’s not careful, then Henry, Michael, and Hank will all get dragged in as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can’t just be living carelessly like he has been the past few days. Not only does he need to be paying attention to the world around him, Spencer needs to be able to protect everyone. It’s up to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He caused this entire problem, and he needs to be the one to resolve it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crumpling up the letter with one hand, Spencer pushes himself off the patio with the other one. “I’m going to go inside,” He announces, feeling drained from that simple sentence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves without checking to see if Derek will follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his way up the stairs, Spencer throws away the discarded letter, wishing that he could forget what he wrote in the first place. It’s not the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last, where Spencer wishes more than anything that he didn’t have an eidetic memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mutely, Spencer wonders how different his life would be if he couldn’t remember everything. If he couldn’t see, picture perfect, hundreds of dead victims, blood pooling around them. He’s seen enough blood halos to last a lifetime. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upstairs, Spencer pulls on another jacket and another pair of socks, enduring the feeling of his toes being forced together. It’s a small price to pay for safety. And if it keeps Hank free from the world’s grasp, he can easily deal with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bringing up the collar of a sweatshirt a few inches, Spencer’s able to tuck his chin in the neck, relishing the little bit of safety it provides. Although it’s not much, it’s better than nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now secure in his jacket, Spencer pulls as many blankets as he can over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Safe. Safe from the world, away from the hands trying to get to him, trying to change him into something he’s not. Trying to torture him and ruin the lives of the innocent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breath catches in his chest after the covers have been pulled over his head, but Spencer knows that he can deal with that. He can handle not being able to breathe. What he can’t handle is the world’s evil reaching him once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking advantage of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling him back and forth, side to side, never giving him a moment of rest or reprieve. Fingers made of tendrils of light, illuminating his face to the shuddering parts of the globe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything’s going downhill, and Spencer can’t do anything to stop it. Maybe if he prepared for it better, then maybe, just maybe, he would be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But instead Spencer had to go and shed one of his layers. He may as well have invited the cruel universe to his doorstep and made it tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now he has to deal with it. Spencer’s brought cruelty to the Morgan household, so he needs to be the one to starve it off. Nobody else, especially Hank, needs to get hurt because of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not even a nagging feeling anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer knows, with one hundred percent certainty, that something is going to go wrong. He should’ve noticed it sooner, the second he decided to shower and take off all of his clothes. The second he thought it was okay to get away with only two pairs of socks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second he left the Morgan household at midnight, wandering along the streets of the barbarous world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a reason why his blood seems to turn ice cold when he sheds a layer, and it’s not from the lack of insulation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can’t handle this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t handle the world grabbing on to his arms and holding tight, he can’t handle the world giving him an inviting smile, only to rip it off with a vicious punch. Everywhere around him are pitiless creatures, and Spencer’s once again fallen right into their domain, into their habitat, into their lives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even as he drags another blanket over his shaking form, Spencer knows that it’s a sisyphean task. He can’t hide from the evil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s merely prolonging the inevitable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Playing a game of hide and seek, cat and mouse, with the same people who tied to a chair and tortured him. The same people who took Maeve away as quickly as she joined him. The same people who drugged him in a home in Mexico, leaving him more broken than he could even imagine. The same people who took Luis away, the second that Spencer only wore one shirt under his gray jumpsuit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just waiting to strike again. And now, ever since he took off all of his layers, he’s giving the world the opportunity to do it again. To take away another slice of innocence just like it did before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only this time, it’s going to be worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t know how, but he knows that it will be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever the wicked world has in store for him, Spencer knows that all of his past life will never compare to it. He doesn’t know how, but he knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer stays under all of the blankets, ignoring his breathing getting heavier, faster, stronger, weaker, slower, ignoring all of his breaths that catch on the seams of his insides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweat pools at the back of his neck, underneath his hair, but Spencer welcomes it. Even a liquid provides more layers. It’s worth it. It’s necessary. Anything to get the world out of his mind, off of his skin, free of his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Closing his eyes, Spencer wonders what the world will strike next. He hopes it isn’t Hank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would never hurt Hank.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can’t repress a flinch, no matter how hard he tries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love children.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re psychologically incapable of feeling love,” Spencer says back, doing his best to keep the shake out of his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A devilish smile accompanies the response. “What’s it called again? Emotional Deprivation Disorder? Or are we still calling me a psychopath? Sociopath? All titles are honestly an honor. Imagine it,” The smile grows wider, “The sociopathic psychopath herself, along with emotional deprivation disorder: Cat Adams. Frankly, I think it has a nice ring to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re all of those,” He nearly growls. “You hurt anyone that you come in contact with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cat doesn’t even bother to deny it. “And yet you’ve always been my favorite, Spencey. I’ve derived so much joy from all of my victims, but there’s something about you. Something that just,” Shivering, she grins, “Gets the blood pumping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer swallows. “You get pleasure from other people’s misfortunes. I’m no different than- than the rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The rest of my </span>
  <em>
    <span>victims?</span>
  </em>
  <span> You can say it, Spencey. You’re one of my victims. Not only that, you’re my favorite.” When she takes a step forward, Spencer can’t help but take one back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m no different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes you are,” She empathetically argues. “Because if you were just like everyone else, I would’ve shot you on the spot. Back in the restaurant where we first met. Do you remember our first date? I can’t ever forget it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer takes another step back. “It wasn’t a date,” He denies, “It was a case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t tell me that there wasn’t a spark there,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There wasn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re no fun!” Cat giggles, doing her best to close the gap between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doing his best to keep his voice steady, Spencer continues walking backwards. “Get away from me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cat just clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “We’re meant to be, Spencey. We fit each other perfectly, like a puzzle. One could even say… we’re soulmates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Cat shrugs, “I’m not going to. Not until you understand who we are- </span>
  <em>
    <span>together.</span>
  </em>
  <span> We could do anything we wanted, Spence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The first thing I’d do is put you in jail,” He deadpans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Cat just takes it all in stride, with another smile fit for the devil. “Prison’s a fun place, isn’t it? You didn’t seem to like it that much though, now that I think about it. What happened?” She asks with faux concern, “Dropped the soap one too many times?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jeez. No need to get all defensive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring her, Spencer unsteadily demands, “Why are you here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I’m part of you, Spencer. And I always will be. From the second I laid eyes on you on that fateful night, I knew that we were going to be something special.” Cat accompanies her statement with a wistful sigh, as if remembering the first time she tortured him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, we’re not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you trying to convince?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer questions, “What’s the point of all this, Cat? What are you trying to achieve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just told you,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No you didn’t. You told me a lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blinking innocently, Cat confirms, “Like you lied about my dad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Spencer quickly counters. “You can’t feel love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think you’re different from me, Spencer. But you’re not. You lie, and deceive, and use bargaining chips that not even a terrorist would use.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a scoff, Spencer points out, “That’s rich coming from you. You used my mom against me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was only getting even. After all, Spencey, you were the one that gave me the idea in the first place.” Before he can even formulate a response, Cat continues, “I got her blessing, did you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer feels a chill run down his spine. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, when you were still in prison. And I was,” Bobbing her head back and forth she murmurs, “Supposed to be,” Before straightening back up, “I had a nice little chat with Diana. I told her how much I care about you. How much I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love </span>
  </em>
  <span>you. And she gave me her blessing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know my mother wasn’t in the right mind,” He bites, “You’re sick. Taking advantage of her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>human,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Spencer. Just like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shuddering deep breath, Spencer turns around, “Get away from me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Closing the gap between them, Cat latches onto Spencer’s wrist, grinning when she sees the fear in his eyes. “You can’t ever get away from me. I told you, Spencer. We’re soulmates. Destined to be together. No matter what you do, or where you go, I’ll always be with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. You’re in prison. You’re staying there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I, though? I’m in a correctional facility, Spence. It’s not like it’d be difficult to escape. I’m sure some of the guards would be interested in me.” At Spencer’s disgusted face, Cat continues with a grin, “I’m sure the guards were rather interested in you too. Did you ever think about what kind of perks you could get if you made them happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breath catches in his chest, in his throat. “Stop-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or maybe you needed protection from the cartels in the inside, hmm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning close to his face, stretching up on her tippy toes, Cat whispers, “I know you, Spence. I know what you’ve gone through, and don’t you ever forget that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Spencer jerks, pulling his wrist to his own chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a part of you,” She croons. “We’re a part of each other. Soulmates, remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” He shakes his head, still taking steps back. “You’re nothing more than a monster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet again, Cat closes the gap. “Even monsters have stories, Spencey. And you’re mine.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think I had a little too much fun with the prose in this chapter, I won't lie. The poetic-ish prose that I used in the second half of the middle is my absolute favorite way to write, and I just got way into it today lmao.</p><p>And now for a shameless self plug: For any of you who are also fans of Prodigal Son, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightTerror/pseuds/BrightTerror">BrightTerror</a> and I are writing a crossover fic between Pson and CM, so keep an eye out for that soon!!</p><p>Have a wonderful rest of your day, and I love you all! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Hi Mom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hi mom,<br/>As always, I hope that you’re feeling well. <br/>I don’t know what to do.<br/>I also don’t know how to continue this letter.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello!! I wrote all of this chapter this afternoon/evening, and I'm actually quite happy how it came out! </p>
<p>I don't know exactly what to say for this chapter, but I really hope you enjoy this :D<br/>Also shout out to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightTerror/pseuds/BrightTerror">BrightTerror</a>she's fucking awesome and keeps me motivated all day!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you’re doing well. I wonder how many other people ever tell you that. Hopefully more than just me. Although I’ve been to Beninngton many times, I still worry about how you’re getting treated.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a worry that I don’t think will go away any time soon. I always worry about you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t have the greatest day yesterday, but I’m feeling better now. At least I think I am. Sometimes it’s difficult to gauge emotions, even when they’re my own. You’d think that after nearly forty years I’d be able to do it, but no.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s where I was the weakest when learning to profile. I’d get in an interrogation room with a suspect, and ten minutes later it would feel like I was the one being interrogated. I prefer to base my suspicions on facts, but you already knew that.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not like I have Rossi’s gift of instantly knowing when someone is lying. It’s sometimes terrifying, even on the other side of the glass, watching Rossi question an unsub. I guess it comes with the years on the job.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Still though, you’d think that by now I’d know at least a little bit about understanding emotions, given how valuable it is to my job. Gideon told me a long time ago that we all have our strengths when it comes to profiling. We all have our biases, and our weaknesses.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gideon never outright told me what his were, but I definitely figured it out. Not on purpose, of course. Profiling just isn’t something that I can turn off.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Neither can my friends. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I feel like I’m under constant scrutiny under their eyes, even though I know that it’s not their fault. I don’t think it’s my fault either. I don’t know who’s fault it is.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I’m going to try and get back to my own apartment soon. The thing is, I love living with the Morgans, I really do, but I don’t know how much longer I can just stay at their house. I feel like a squatter. I’m not contributing anything to their little ecosystem, but I’m still taking things away from them.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Invasive species. That’s the term that I was thinking of. I feel like an invasive species at their house. They say that I’m welcome, and although part of me wants to believe them, a greater part doesn’t.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Welcome guests don’t take away from the good of the family, and I’m pretty sure I do.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And it’s not something that I know how to bring up, because I know that Morgan will instantly tell me that I’m not a bother, and that I’m not in the way, but I just don’t see it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He has enough going on anyway, especially because Savannah’s picked up more shifts at the hospital. Usually Morgan works on houses when he’s not taking care of Hank, but now he has less time for that because of me. He won’t leave Hank alone with me, and even when the kid isn’t home, Morgan won’t leave me at home by myself either.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, just thinking about it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s something about me, mom, that I just have to rid, but I don’t know what it is. There’s something about me that doesn’t sit right with anyone.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Nobody trusts me alone anymore, which would bother me on an ordinary day, but in this situation, it’s more painful than ever.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>None of them seem to remember the fact that I’ve been taking care of myself since I was ten. I can handle surviving.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Then again, according to my therapist I’ve been harboring trauma since I was ten, so maybe my friends have a point. I just don’t get why it all came tumbling down now.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This letter is getting out of hand.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I’m going to send it. I still love you, though.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As always, I hope that you’re feeling well. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot regarding the whole “doing well” term. How are you supposed to feel well all the time? I don’t get it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sure that I’ve been happy and content many times before, but the whole idea of “feeling well” just doesn’t make any sense to me. Perhaps that’s my creeping anxiety. At this point, I’m quite sure that it could be anything. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone around me seems to always pin it on trauma, and I’m too tired to correct them. They all act like trauma is just something that I can push back, just something to not focus on.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But it’s not just a part of me at this point, it is me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I haven’t realized until now that my whole personality is just a result of the hell I’ve gone through. It’s a sobering thought, to say the least.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I wonder what I’d be like if I had a “normal” life.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I’m going to send this one either. Still, I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope that you’ve been doing well lately, and I hope things at Bennington aren’t too stressful for you. I also hope that you’ve gotten my books that I sent over a few days ago.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I need to take a trip back to my apartment and grab more books for myself. And then after I’m done with those, I think I’ll send them your way too. Unless you want to, you don’t have to send the books back. As long as they’re with you I know that they’re in good hands.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Lately I’ve been thinking about studying a new field.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not necessarily to get a degree in it, but just to learn something new. After all, the last thing I need is more degrees. It’s nothing but a way to prove my worth, which I don’t need anymore. At least I don’t think so.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you ever get stir crazy at Bennington? I know that you take trips sometimes, but it still seems like getting tired of your environment would be easy. That’s what’s happening to me, I think. I’m not really sure, though. Maybe it’s just my brain, spinning me in circle after circle after circle. Around and around and around.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My brain seems to be doing a lot of that since I’ve gotten back from Texas. It’s as if something there just triggered my brain into not thinking straight anymore.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Despite all of my knowledge about psychology, I’m not confident enough to make an inference about that. I’ll leave that to the professionals. Not that I’m going to tell Delilah about it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Have I told you about Delilah yet? I don’t think I have.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She’s my therapist. I have one now. An actual one too, not like the little appointments that I go to after a bad case. She’s a bona fide certified therapist. Complete with a plethora of lamps in her office too.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Delilah’s quite nice. She also knows exactly when I’m hiding something, which I suppose is a good trait for a therapist. Of course when I’m actually in my appointments I always wish that she didn’t know the ins and outs of my brain.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I wonder how much she writes down in her files. I’ve seen therapists’ notes before, usually for cases, but it’s hard comparing that back to myself. There’s an infinite amount of things that she could be writing, and I don’t know any of it. And it’s not like I can read the writing from where I’m sitting.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Other than each appointment being slightly unnerving, it’s not too bad. Some are better than others, but that’s to be expected. The problem is that I’m not even feeling better.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Therapy isn’t a miracle worker or anything, I know that, but I still feel like I should be seeing a difference by now. Instead I’m still wearing layer after layer.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I pulled up the fitted sheet again last night, but this time I was smart enough to put it back on before anyone realized it. Save for the smallest bit of guilt, I’m not annoyed at myself at all. It keeps me safe, and the only way I can sleep is if I’m safe.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve said too much again, so I’m not going to send this letter either.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to know that I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s Spencer. I wonder, do you get letters from anyone else? I know that you don’t get any from dad, and because most of your friends are in Bennington, there’s probably a small chance that you get letters from other people. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hopefully you aren’t getting tired of my letters. I’ve been sending them since I was eighteen, so it’s been nearly two decades. I’m certainly not getting tired of writing them, so rest assured, you should continue to receive them. There are still some days that I want to try out calling and texting, but I know that’s not really an option at the moment.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes it’s difficult to learn new skills, especially when it’s regarding electronics. I certainly haven’t forgotten what you did to the radio when I was eleven. Not that I blame you or anything.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was fun being able to see all of the parts on the inside. That’s one of the reasons why I even got interested in engineering in the first place.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Garcia would say that everything happens for a reason, so maybe that’s why you broke the radio. Then again, Garcia also believes that there are soulmates for everyone, so I don’t know how much I trust her regarding the more philosophical parts of the world.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Philosophy has never been my strong suit. I’m not like you, when it comes to this. I’m far more comfortable with facts and science, rather than the more theoretical bits. I’ve done a bit of theoretical math, but it’s not as rewarding as other types.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing’s as rewarding as calculus, I can say that with one hundred percent certainty. I’m quite sure that nobody that I know would agree with me on that.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s just such an incredible feeling after working on a certain problem for hours, and finally reaching the end. It’s monumentally better than the feeling after solving a case, even.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I can just be lost in my mind for hours upon hours, and the only thing inside being math. And then finally solving it is the best reward that I could ever receive. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Nobody else on the team is very fond of math, but I don’t mind. Geometry has never been my favorite, but it’s needed to create a geographical profile. All that you really need to do is make certain coinciding circles. That might be a bit of an under exaggeration, but it’s honestly not too difficult. I always get assigned to it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>When I started with the BAU it was because I was the fastest at doing all of the math needed, when it came to the radius of the circles, but now it’s mostly because nobody else wants to do it. I don’t mind staying at the precincts, drawing circles on maps. And now that I’m older I get far less nasty looks from the local PD as I got earlier.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Back when I was in my twenties Gideon and Hotch would leave someone else at the precinct, usually JJ, just to ensure that nothing would happen with the PD. They’re all rather angry people. Not exactly who I’d want for police officers, but it’s not my choice. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>All of my letters have been getting out of hand lately. There’s now a pile by the bed of all of the letters I haven’t sent. This one will be joining them in a second.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope that you’re feeling good. And I hope that you’re still liking Bennington.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I know that after Mexico I was looking at other places, but now I’m confident that Bennington is probably the best place for you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Although you don’t know it, I’m quite the hypocrite.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Talking about you being in a hospital, even when it doesn’t seem fit to you. Extremely hypocritical on my end. I haven’t told you this before, but many of the people around me are pushing for hospitalization.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Delilah keeps saying that it’s not her goal, but I know that she certainly wouldn’t be adverse to sending me to a psych ward.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Just to be clear, I don’t need to be in one.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not for schizophrenia or depression or anything of the sorts.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>All that happens is that I feel anxious sometimes. Definitely doesn’t warrant a trip to the hospital, that’s for sure. I can count on one hand the amount of times that I’ve been to the hospital in my childhood, and if I went every time I felt anxious, we would’ve been broke.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>More broke than we already were, that is. We’d definitely be in debt.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This letter is already turning into a mess. What I’m trying to get at is that I don’t need to be hospitalized, but all my friends don’t seem to understand that. It’s not like I’m a danger to myself or anyone around me, right? No matter how many times I tell them that, they just all seem to ignore me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Before every therapy appointment I’m half convinced that I’m going to end up saying something that’ll cause Delilah to put me on the fast track to hospitalization. I know I shouldn’t be lying to her, but I can’t risk it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve already been to prison once, and I don’t need to go there again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Another one for the pile next to my bed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi Mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As always, I hope you’re doing well.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I had an absolutely awful night.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t mean to start my letter like this, so I’m sorry for that. Then again, you know that I’ve never been good at easing into conversations. That’s something that I’ve just never gotten the hang of.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not important right now, though.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yesterday, between Morgan, Delilah, and even Savannah, I was convinced to take a shower. I knew it was a mistake, I really did.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m always horrifically exposed, and it just makes me feel awful.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I know that I need to get on top of personal hygiene so Delilah doesn’t hospitalize me, but at this point it’s almost not worth it. The only thing that really pushed me was the thought that I’d have to shower at the hospital, and it would be even less private there.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m also back to showering in the dark. Logically I know that’s not helping protect me from all of the prying eyes of the world, but at least it helps emotionally. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I feel a bit stupid having to cover all of the windows over and over again, but when I see Hank it all makes sense to me. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The back of my mind tells me that my clothes have never helped, that the layers around me have never helped, but I still can’t get over it. It’s something that I’ve been taught for my entire life, so I can’t just make it go away in a few days.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I still can’t tell if therapy is helping, but Delilah seems pleased with my progress, so that’s something. She’s also happy that I’m on meds now. I’ve told you I’m on meds now, right?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It feels weird, being dependent on medicine. It’s not good for the field, I can tell you that much. If something goes wrong, and I’m not able to take it, I’ll be going through withdrawal.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I guess I know enough about that already.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This letter is definitely never going to be sent.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As per usual, I hope your day is going well.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mine is not.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The team is almost done with their case, which means that they’re coming back. JJ already has plans for me to see Henry and Michael, which I know I should be excited for, but I’m just not. I love them, I love them so much, but right now I can’t stomach the feeling of being near them.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Luke’s still suspicious because of what Garcia’s told him, and there’s nothing that I can say that’ll assuage his fears. I’m worried about what Garcia told him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m worried about what Garcia knows. It’s not a question on whether or not she snooped, because I know she did, so all I can do is hope that she didn’t uncover as much as I fear. Who knows, though. Unless I ask her about it, I won’t ever know.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And if there’s one thing for sure, I won’t be asking her about it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t even want to think about Mexico.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yet here I am, writing about Mexico, let alone thinking about it. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Somehow, it’s easier to write about it than just having it stuck in my head. To a degree, the thought is always stuck in my head, and that’s not even counting my eidetic memory.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yesterday Morgan called me a sponge with an eidetic memory.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I couldn’t find any reason to correct him. Is he really wrong?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not important right now. What is important is that everyone has made plans to see me after the end of the case, and I just can’t bring myself to be as excited as they are. I can easily hide that over texts, but there’s no way I could hide it in person.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You know, better than anyone else, that I can’t hide my emotions. That’s never really bothered me before now. I have no idea how other people sit and lie and lie and lie. It would just set me on edge for my entire life.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think you were very good at lying either.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Then again, you were able to keep Gary Michaels a secret.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, look. Another letter for the pile.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I should start making these more light if I actually want to send them.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No matter what, I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As always, I hope that you’re feeling well. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know what to do.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I also don’t know how to continue this letter.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope that you’re doing well.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hotch called me again a couple of hours ago, which was nice. He’s still feeling guilty, even though I barely even understand why. It’s not even something that’s happened recently, either. Hotch still feels guilty from when he was the Unit Chief. Like I said, I just don’t get it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That being said, I’m probably the last person that should be judgemental toward a person’s feelings. I don’t even know how I feel.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s still getting warmer, which I absolutely hate.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I spend all day sweating, and I’m absolutely miserable, but there’s no way that I’m taking off any of my layers. That’s when everything dangerous will pop up.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>With the help of Delilah, I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’s a random chance, random correlation, when it comes to trauma and the armor over my back, but it’s not working. No matter how many times I tell myself, there’s always the voice in my head that gives me the science on causation.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t argue with facts- it’s what I’m built on. With all logic, I know that there’s a causation between what happened with me, and the amount of clothes that I’m wearing. It’s happened multiple times.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not a coincidence.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I probably sound absolutely mad.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This letter is definitely going into the pile. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I should invest in a recycle bin at this point.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope that you’re feeling okay.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know how you’ve been handling it for decades. Therapy is absolutely exhausting. It doesn’t even make sense that I feel physical exhaustion after appointments. I’m not doing anything but sitting on the couch.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And yet I’m completely drained.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no way that I’m going to be able to continue this.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t even have time to write a full letter today. Not that my other letters have been particularly long, but still. None of my thoughts seem to be ordered today, and I can barely even form sentences at this point. Maybe it’s a good thing that I don’t have time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not sure.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That doesn’t matter, I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As always, I hope that you’re feeling well today.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At the moment it feels like everyone is all converging to Virginia at once. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not only is all of the team going to be back at the same time, apparently Mari is also stopping by. I’m worried about how Morgan’s going to react. I don’t remember much of that morning, but I do know that Morgan certainly didn’t like hearing that Mari was the one that helped me uncover my memories.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hopefully I can convince him before she arrives that Mari did nothing wrong. It’s not fair to her. I essentially guilted her into helping me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I’m a bad person.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope that you’re doing well. Lately I’ve been wondering how many people that have said that to you. Am I the only one that wishes you well? I hope not. You deserve to have more people that care about you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not out of necessity of a job, either. I know that the Bennington staff cares about you, but I always wonder how much. How many nurses are just doing it for the money and free insurance, and how many of them actually care.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve always had a good eye for people that actually care. Now that I’m thinking about it, I think that Rodger is probably one of the nurses that don’t care much about his patients. That’s probably why you’ve had such a weird feeling about him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve never been able to tell if people are good or not, if I don’t have evidence.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Morgan still thinks that Mari’s a bad person. I tried to talk with him last night, but it didn’t help. He just claims that she should’ve known better.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I guess I know where he’s coming from, but nothing that I say can make him understand. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That seems to be a bit of a recurring theme in my life at the moment. A motif, if you will.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, my motifs certainly aren’t as interesting as Brontë’s were. That’s the problem with real life, I suppose. Nothing is ever as interesting as the things that we read about.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not sure what to write.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m worried about Mari coming. I don’t want my friends to hate her. None of them seem to understand that she’s the reason why I was even able to make it through college. She essentially adopted me, now that I think about it. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without her, and I’m not exaggerating.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Without Mari, I would’ve never gotten interested in psychology, and I would’ve never met Gideon through that lecture.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d much rather be visiting you, than having all of these people visit me at once. I can feel the anxiety bubble in my stomach. It’s a horrible feeling. Like someone has taken my small intestine and attempted to knot the most intricate celtic design, all while still keeping it inside my body.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that how metaphors work? I’ve never been good with them, despite the plethora of literature that I’ve read.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Nobody has met Mari yet. It feels like two sides of my life all meeting together at one point. How am I supposed to deal with all of this? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. You’re never going to read this, so I know that I’m not going to get an answer. Maybe I’ll dream of an answer.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve always taught me how to dream, and what to do with all of my dreams. When I was little I thought that it was just paranoia, but now I understand. There’s so much to uncover in dreams.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Even when they’re all nightmares.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>One day I’ll end up actually sending a letter to you. Until then, I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope that you’re doing well. I really want to go visit you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Or even just go back to my own apartment. It feels like the hours are all counting down until everyone gets to Virginia, and I’m dreading it, to say the least. I’m worried. Then again, I seem to worry about everything. Even things that have no place in my life.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m worried though. Really worried.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish I was back at my own apartment. I need more books to read, and I know that dad’s jacket is somewhere in there. I had it when I moved, which means that it couldn’t have gone far. It’s not that I’m planning on wearing it, I just want it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Two appointments ago I caved and told Delilah about it. She thinks that it’ll be good for closure. The only problem is, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be getting closure for.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>My awful childhood? I think I’ve already embraced that. None of this even makes sense. Therapy doesn’t make sense.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It makes sense from a logical standpoint. I’ve seen the statistics on how therapy and medication helps people who are mentally ill. But I can’t seem to understand it when it’s regarding myself. I’ve always been an anomaly, though, so maybe I shouldn’t be too surprised.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Or maybe I’m just a narcissist, thinking that I should be different than anyone around me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think that there’s a thin line between being self aware and being a narcissist. That’s a weird thing to think about. It’s one of those topics that I know you would’ve lectured about. You probably would’ve had a field day talking about it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve been thinking about going to lectures again, but I can’t say that sitting in a room with dozens of people is exactly appealing. Plus Morgan is still hesitant to let me leave the house. It feels like I’m on a leash.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But I’ve probably brought that upon myself, after my short escapade to Hotch’s house at four in the morning.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This letter is getting too long, and I’m not going to send it anyway, so I think I’ll just end it here. I hope no one ends up finding these and reading them.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever the case may be, I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom, I hope you’re doing well.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>One could say that I got in a bit of trouble the other day.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Savannah found me, severely dehydrated in the backyard, which wasn’t an ideal situation. She’s an ER doctor, so I know that I couldn’t have scared her too badly, but I can’t say the same for Morgan. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He hasn’t said anything about it, but I know that I messed up. I just needed to be safe, away from the innocence in the Morgan house. Which is how I found myself on the grass outside. It was sunny, no clouds in sight, which was probably my mistake.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Virginia gets sunny days approximately 205 days a year, but that’s changing due to global warming. My point is, I should’ve thought about what I was doing, sitting out there in multiple layers in the sun, but I didn’t.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Morgan’s not happy with me. The problem is, I think he’s going to find a way to twist it and take it out on Mari. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t even know anymore. I want to go back to my apartment. I want things to just go back to normal, like they were before Texas.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It sounds childish even writing that. On the plus side, nobody’s ever going to read this letter, so it’s not going to matter.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Even though your eyes won’t reach this, I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope that you’re feeling well.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yet again, I’ve just narrowly escaped hospitalization. I’m pretty sure that the only reason why I’m getting away with this is because Delilah knows about my trauma from prison. If I didn’t have any prison trauma, I’m sure I’d already be admitted at this point.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At least prison was good for one reason. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish I was back in my apartment, where I have control. I’m beginning to understand why you loathed leaving the house so badly. It’s where everything is. It’s where your life was.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I still feel guilty for taking you out of the home when I was eighteen, but I didn’t have a choice. I know that you’ve forgiven me, but I don’t think that I’ve quite forgiven myself yet. It doesn’t really matter anymore though, does it?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been two decades.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The house sold pretty quickly, I don’t think I ever told you that. Although it wasn’t the nicest neighborhood, getting a house in Las Vegas is already hard enough, so it sold fast. I think I could’ve jacked up the price a bit, but I didn’t have it in me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Only a few months before that I spent my entire time scamming casinos, and I wasn’t ready to do the same thing to actual people. Although those are pretty different, I just wasn’t up to it. Plus I would’ve needed a real estate agent, and that would’ve been a mess.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m just glad that I was able to sell it that quickly.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Despite, or maybe in spite of the gambling, that was a fairly good summer. It was when I still hadn’t spent a lot of time without Mari, so I was worried, but I ended up spending it all with Ethan. I’ve told you about him. He was the one that I dated for a few years while we were at CalTech, and a bit of MIT. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s the one that went to Quantico for a day, before moving away.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But at the time I was only seventeen, and all I knew was that I needed money to pay for Bennington, so Ethan thought of Las Vegas. I tried to tell him that counting cards was illegal, and I was going to get kicked out, but he didn’t argue with me. Instead, he just taught me how to play poker worse, so I wouldn’t look as suspicious. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I’ve ever told you about that. I think you would’ve liked Ethan. If we had stayed together, I would’ve brought him to meet you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s okay though, you didn’t get to meet the other person I fell in love with. Although to be fair, I barely got to meet her myself. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I’m going to end this letter. I don’t want to think.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As always, I hope that you’re well.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>One of these days I’m going to send you a picture of Hank. I sent one back when he was just born, but he’s grown so much. And he also loves playing with blocks.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>After performing an easy sleight of hand once, Hank has been obsessed with me playing blocks with him, and I can’t say that I mind it. He smiles and laughs at the smallest things, delighted at even the most mundane parts of the world.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I was ever like that. Granted, I only started remembering when I was three years old, but I don’t think that I was an excitable toddler. Not like Hank, anyway. He’s someone who I can already tell is going to be an extrovert. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He loves hugs, and every night he gets kisses from his parents. It’s so odd.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hank is growing up with so much physical touch, and he embraces it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I can barely handle when someone gets close.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>*</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope that you’re feeling okay.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Evidently everyone is about to show up at the same time, which I’m absolutely dreading. Even Savannah’s off a shift at the moment. I guess she’s on-call, so there is a chance that there’s one less person. I’m not hoping for that though, even with the amount of people that are about to show up.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She’s been working far too many shifts.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know what I’m going to do.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m excited to see Mari, but I hate the reason why. Hotch is going to be here too, probably to talk to Mari and on top of that Emily has to show up because now Mari technically knows confidential information.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s definitely a reason why Delilah told me to not press my memories, but I don’t think that this was why. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Luke’s still texting me as well. I haven’t spoken, or texted, with him for a few days at this point. I feel bad, but I just don’t know what to say.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mostly, I just want to curl up underneath the covers and hide away from the world for a few days. I know that’s not exactly possible though.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not anymore.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know what to do, or how to feel. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no reason for me to not send this letter, but I still don’t think I’m going to. I couldn’t tell you why, either. There’s just this nagging feeling. Sorry mom.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Fear not, the next chapter will resume your regularly scheduled angst :D</p>
<p>I hope everyone has a wonderful day, and a wonderful weekend!! I love you all &lt;33</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. There's an Equal and Opposite Reaction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Both sides of Spencer's life converges at a single point. He's not going to be able to hide anymore.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! Hello! Firstly, I am so sorry for the mega late update, and I hope this longerish chapter will partly make up for that fact! Long story short, the first week of Feb was a goddamn fucking shitshow of a week for me. On Monday I had a seizure, on Wednesday my old coach passed away, and on Saturday my cousin passed away. It was. Bad.</p>
<p>But! I'm here now, so you don't have to worry about any of that! And I'm very excited to bring you the chapter that many of you all have been waiting for: the chapter where Mari is back!! *confetti*</p>
<p>The end has serious talk of addiction, so if that is triggering, please don't read! As always, your health is more important than this piece of fiction &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You don’t look like a kid anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of all of the things Spencer was expecting to hear from Mari, that definitely wasn’t it. Out of nothing but sheer surprise, Spencer laughs. It sounds rather unnatural. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All too happy to join in, Hank laughs from across the room, even though he’s barely following anything that’s going on. To be honest, Spencer’s a bit jealous of Hank’s ability to play with blocks and ignore the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finding Hank’s eyes, Mari smiles at him, giving a small wave to the curious boy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally getting his wits together, Spencer answers, “I think that’s good? Thank you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a fond shake of her head, Mari attempts to correct herself, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. You just- I’m not sure. The last time I saw you was forever ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Over a decade.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” She quietly agrees. “You were basically still a kid, you know? What was it, twenty four?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, Spencer points out, “That’s not really a child.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You couldn’t rent a car without the rates being atrocious.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s… true,” He concedes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Picking up his child, Derek gives both of them a fond look and announces, “I’ll let you too catch up. I’ll tell Hotch you’re here,” He waves a hand in front of his face, raising his eyebrows when Hank immediately reaches out to grab it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even after the two have headed upstairs, Spencer stays standing in the middle of the kitchen, still taking in Mari. She also looks older. Maybe a gray hair or two, which is a weird thought. He’s used to her being twenty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling Spencer out of his thoughts, Mari motions at the kitchen chairs. “You want to sit down? We can talk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer nods. “Yeah, that would be good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari begins. “I know I said it before, but I really am sorry for not calling you earlier. I just kind ignored you for ten years.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘S okay,” The younger man honestly answers. “If I wanted to I could’ve found you,” Wincing, Spencer attempts to backtrack, “That came out wrong. Not in a stalker,” He swallows, “Not in a stalker-ish way. Just in a- I don’t know where I’m going with this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To his relief, Mari just chuckles. “It’s okay. I understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rubbing the opposite thumb over the scar on his palm, Spencer explains, “For dragging you into this. All of this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t need to apologize for that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer,” His eyes flick up at his name, “What happened to you… that’s nothing that you ever have to apologize for.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a half shake and a half nod, Spencer awkwardly confirms, “No, I know that,” Does he? “I meant making all of this </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>problem.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>a therapist.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’re not mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” She agrees, “But I’m still your friend. At least, I hope I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a small smile, Spencer nods, “You are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. As your friend, I want to help. You’re not dragging me into anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Spencer’s instinct is to argue more, he knows it’s not going to get him anywhere. “Oh. Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a swallow, Mari adds, “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad that you came to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not,” Spencer snorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a response, Mari just gives him a sad smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of nothing but habit, Spencer shakes down the sleeves of his sweatshirt to get the ends to cover his fingertips. He knows that Mari’s aware of it, but both pretend otherwise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat of silence, Spencer suddenly speaks up, words choppy from anxiety. “I am… sorry for anything that Hotch or Morgan says.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?” Mari questions, not bothering to hide her confused look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Morgan is not happy with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she lightly chuckles, Spencer just stares at her, feeling more confused by the second. “We’re okay. We talked on the ride from the airport. He specifically told me that he isn’t angry at me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bit lost for words, Spencer just replies, “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He doesn’t hold anything against me. Which, yes, includes helping you remember what happened in Mexico,” She answers the unspoken question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as the words leave her mouth, Spencer just feels like an idiot. He had spent nearly the entire previous week stressing about his two friends hating each other, while in reality, it seems that the opposite has happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought that his new medication was supposed to help with that. “‘S not a miracle worker,” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer apologizes, “Sorry. I was, I don’t know, thinking out loud?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari gives him a soft smile, resting her hands on top of the table. It seems like a stark contrast to Spencer’s hands, hidden on his lap beneath layers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can stop his candor, Spencer suddenly announces, “I don’t want to talk about Mexico.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Mari nods with a smile. “We definitely don’t have to. I know that part of the reason why I came here was to talk about it, but mostly I just wanted to see my friend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As you mentioned, I’m not your therapist,” She starts, “So we definitely don’t have to treat this as such. I just want to hear about my friend Spencer Reid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kneading fabric between his fingers, Spencer admits, “I don’t know what to talk about that wouldn’t turn into a therapy appointment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To his surprise, Mari just chuckles. “Just talk about whatever you want?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a few seconds of deliberation, Spencer starts with, “You never met Ethan,” Before shaking his head. “Sorry, that was random. I’m- there’s going to be a connection to this. I promise it’ll make sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s all good, Spencer. And you’re correct. I’ve never met Ethan. I remember that you told me about him though, over the phone. Back in grad school? Same Ethan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” He nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Mari starts with a wince, “But didn’t the two of you break up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Another nod, “And that hasn’t changed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he doesn’t continue, Mari’s lips curl into a smile. “I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile of his own, Spencer continues, “But, Ethan was the first boy that I was romantically involved in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not the only one now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mari’s grin grows wider, “Do you have a boyfriend, Spencer?” She questions, drawing out his name for a few extra syllables for dramatic effect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pressing his eyebrows together, he answers, “I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>have a boyfriend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do I get to meet him?” Mari asks. “And question him? Give him the shovel talk? My kids aren’t old enough to be dating, but they’re not too far off, which means that I have to practice my shovel talks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Although I don’t have evidence, I think all of my friends have already given Luke the ‘shovel talk.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leaning forward on the table, Mari raises her eyebrows, “Oh, so his name’s ‘Luke,’ huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Spencer nods. “I probably should’ve started with that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari just gives him a big grin. “I’m happy for you, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.” Part of Spencer is also happy for him, but he isn’t quite sure what he should be doing with that information. There’s a pregnant pause, before Spencer awkwardly adds, “He  doesn’t know what’s happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With,” Trailing off, Spencer ducks his chin into his sweatshirt. “With all of this. Luke doesn’t know about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Giving Spencer a fond look, Mari points out, “If he loves you, then it won’t matter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer sucks in a breath. “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to talk more, spill everything in his mind and heart, but Spencer knows he just doesn’t have the time. It’s not the time, nor place, to be thinking of those things. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And evidently, the world agrees, because not five minutes later does Spencer find himself sitting at the table, old coworkers and old friends beside him. He feels a bit like a specimen on display, even when they’re not looking at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone looks like they’re about to say something, but ultimately, Emily’s the one to begin. “Just to be clear,” She starts, “None of this should be happening. And if it was, we should be in a secure room at Quantico. Do you guys get that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a few murmurs of understanding, along with a nod or two.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Catherine Adams has operated across the country, and allegedly internationally, which makes her a national threat. So none of you should know about it,” She adds, nodding to Hotch, Derek, and Mari. “That being said, I’m sure as hell not gonna tell anyone about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a frown, Mari confirms, “Catherine Adams was the woman in Mexico, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not exactly,” Spencer answers. “Technically that was Lindsey Vaughn. But she was operating under Cat Adams.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Mari nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before anyone can add anything else, Emily continues. “Because all of you have learned about Cat through… questionable means, I don’t want to have to tell Cruz. But you need to understand that none of you can talk about this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We know,” Derek confirms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. What can I do to help?” Emily then asks, surprising the guests. “I’m serious. Off the books, what can I do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone is silent for a few moments before Hotch speaks up, “Why was the unredacted file so short? Based on the situation, the size of the file doesn’t add up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A lot of it was handwritten,” Emily truthfully answers. “To avoid people like Garcia learning about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer points out, “I never knew about that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No one did. And just to be clear, none of you heard this, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Mari answers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. And Spencer, no one else on the team knows about it either. Cruz and the higher ups are the only ones who are aware of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although part of him doesn’t want to know the answer, Spencer can’t help but question, “What does it have on it? What does the file include?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone is silent for a few moments, before Spencer quietly responds, “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kitchen is eerily quiet for another few seconds, until Emily breaks it once again. “Marianna,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mari,” She instinctively corrects.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mari. You’re a civilian. Technically Hotch and Morgan are as well, but your past work doesn’t include being a special agent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not exactly sure where she’s going with this, Mari just nods, “I’m aware.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spence ending up in Mexico is nearly completely off the books.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking down, Spencer hides a wince. He can already feel his fingers itching to be shoved under his thighs, but he pushes down the thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Setting her hands on the table, Mari clears her throat. “I know. I get it. I’m aware that I’m not a special agent, but I understand how confidentiality works. I’ve been a therapist since my twenties- I know how to keep a secret.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Emily nods. “And I’m sorry, but I just had to ensure that what happened in Mexico, or even that he was in Mexico doesn’t get out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know not to tell anyone. Just like you guys do,” Mari adds, doing her best to keep a bite out of her words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer feels his stomach twist and turn, a strange roller coaster going through his intestines. That’s what it feels like, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Emily points out, “I’m confident that I can trust you, Mari. If you’re a friend of Spence, then I know you can be trusted. I just have to double check.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. No, I- I get it. I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Emily takes a breath, before turning to the youngest member at the table. “Spence, can I talk with you for a minute?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if his anxiety wasn’t bad enough, it sky rockets with that single statement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And evidently he doesn’t do a very good job at hiding that fact, because a second later Emily adds on, “Nothing bad, I promise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once everyone else has cleared out, Emily starts with, “I just want to say that I’m not going to say anything to Cruz about you and Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a confused look, Spencer questions, “Why does everyone know about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve met Garcia,” Emily grins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Conceding, Spencer mumbles, “I guess that’s fair. Is there anything else that you wanted to talk to me about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” She nods, face falling. “I want to extend your medical leave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though Spencer was pretty sure that was coming, it still feels painful to hear. Doing his best to not show a blatant reaction, he asks, “Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not ready to go back into the field.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, he certainly appreciates her candor. “You haven’t seen me, though. You’ve been in Montana. There’s no way for you to know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spence, when I get a call at four in the morning about one of my agents, it’s never a good sign.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m better now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you?” After seeing Spencer’s blanched face, Emily sighs to herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just worried about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Being back in the field could help me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily swallows, dreading the words before they’ve even come out of her mouth. “I don’t think it will. Granted, I’m not a psychologist, but I’m pretty sure if I asked Delilah, she’d agree with me. You’re just not ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But, it’s,” Spencer frowns, shaking his head. “It’s my life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to make a choice for the team.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taken aback, Spencer quietly questions, “You don’t want me on the team?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That came out wrong,” Emily groans. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t want you getting more hurt, okay? It’s like working in the field with a broken bone. Sure, there’s a good chance that nothing will happen to make it worse, but on the off chance that something </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>go wrong, it could’ve been completely avoidable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pauses for a second, deciphering the metaphor. That’s one thing that he’s never been the best at. “I just. I don't know what to do if I’m not working.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, what did you do before?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Before what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Before you worked at the BAU,” Emily explains.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a split second, Spencer doesn’t even know if he’s going to find a way to answer it. “I don’t know. Studied to be in the BAU?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Doing her best to hide a frown, Emily asks, “What about before that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Studying,” Spencer truthfully answers. “That’s all I was doing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’d you do for fun?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Learning was fun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Emily attempts, “What’s something that you did for fun that didn’t include a text book?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wishing that he didn’t have to, Spencer has to take a second to think back. Slowly, he answers, “Ethan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Emily confirms, “New Orleans Ethan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer nods, “He used to play piano. I used to just sit and listen. I didn’t ever need to do something else in the background. I’d just… listen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a few seconds of silence, before Emily speaks up again, “So, while you’re not working, you could do that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer makes a face. “Listen to Ethan play piano?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No no no, I didn’t mean it literally. I just meant that you could listen to music in general. Or play music. Might take your mind off of things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a hum, Spencer questions, “Take my mind off of what things?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know.” She deadpans. When Spencer doesn’t say anything in return, Emily starts up again, “Just try it? I don’t want you to be worrying about the BAU all the time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t help it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Emily admits with a soft smile. “But I want you to try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing, Spencer acknowledges, “Okay. I’ll try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily smiles again, before all seriousness has left her face. “It’s nice to meet Mari. I can’t believe you never talked about her before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We had a bit of a falling out,” Spencer replies, eyebrows scrunching. “Actually, I don’t think that’s the right word for it. We just kind of, I don’t know, stopped talking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shrug, Emily muses, “You just drifted apart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It happens. Even when you try to stop it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer reiterates, taking a long breath in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a beat before Emily asks, “Are you going to be okay if you aren’t able to go back to the BAU as soon as you thought?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be fine,” Spencer nods with a slight smile. “I can handle it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Emily agrees, “I know you can handle it. I just want to make sure that it’s not going to make things worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you’ve made a different decision if staying away from work did make me worse?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily pauses for a few moments. “Honestly? I’m not sure. Whichever was the lesser of two evils, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve never understood that phrase,” Spencer admits after a nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about it doesn’t make sense?” Wincing, Emily adds, “Sorry, that came out pretty harsh. I seem to be on a roll today when it comes to my brain to mouth filter. Does it just not make sense? The metaphor, that is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer shakes his head, a small smile coming, and falling from his lips. “It just- I’m not sure. It makes it sound like that you always have to settle for something evil.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes you do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s always another way.” At Emily’s fond smile, Spencer questions, “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” She gives a shallow chuckle. “I just can’t believe that you’re brave enough to still believe that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I be brutally honest with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile of his own, Spencer questions, “What have you been doing since I’ve met you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Laughing, Emily concedes, “That’s fair. But even more brutal than usual.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go ahead,” Spencer shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Albeit slowly, Emily begins. “When I first met you, back when you were still, what, twenty five, twenty six? I thought that you were just too naive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You weren’t the first person to think that,” Spencer points out. “Gideon always told me to take advantage of that fact. Catch people by surprise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And it certainly worked on me. I thought that you were too innocent to do the job. And I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t just because of your age.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Curiosity rising in his mind, Spencer asks, “What was it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You always believed that you could save a victim. That the unsub would be caught, and put on trial, sentenced to jail.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scrunching his eyes, Spencer swallows. “Everyone on the team thinks that. If we lose hope then we’re making finding a victim harder on ourselves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emily gives him a sad shake of her head. “Not everyone on the team believes that, Spencer. There’s always this feeling we have in the back of our heads. This nag that just tells us that the victim is already dead. That the unsub will go away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We all have doubts,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not just doubts,” She shakes her head again. “It’s the full belief that we’re too late. Something that we just… know. But you weren’t like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not quite following, Spencer questions, “But I am now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Emily breathlessly chuckles, “No, the opposite, Spence. I don’t know how you do it. But somehow you’ve kept this- this-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Naivety?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fortitude.” She answers. “Even after all you’ve been through, you still believe that people can be saved.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Proving her point, Spencer answers, “Because they can.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve never believed that we have to settle for evil, Spence. And you’re the only one, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only person </span>
  </em>
  <span>that I’ve ever worked with who feels that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can feel his chest tighten, but he doesn’t even know why. It’s not anxiety, but he doesn’t know what else it could be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even after all you’ve been through. I thought for sure that we’d lose you after Hankel, after Georgia, and after everything that came after, but somehow you just got back up,” She softly muses. “I don’t know how you’re able to do that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know either,” Spencer swallows. “I don’t know how to change.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barely missing a beat, Emily replies, “Don’t ever. The most powerful tool you have is yourself. It’s your own brain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what if I’m losing it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Losing what? Your brain?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then don’t settle for that. Fight to get it back, just like you’ve always don.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Uncrossing her legs, Delilah begins, “I know that you had quite a few concerns with your friends meeting each other. Do you want to talk about how that went?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sucking in an unnecessary breath, Spencer replies, “It went well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How was your anxiety during it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Scale of one to ten, one being basically no anxiety, and ten being the worst anxiety you’ve ever had.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer makes a face, picking at the seam of his sweatshirt. “Not bad. A four, maybe?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah writes something down. “Okay. Do you think that meds have been helping? Making things worse? Or just no difference?” After Spencer doesn’t respond, Delilah adds, “There’s no wrong answer here, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not really feeling a difference,” Spencer admits. “Nothing’s worse or anything. I just- I don’t know. It feels the same.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can work with that,” Delilah nods. “It’s still very early on, so I’m not too surprised. And if in a couple weeks it still isn’t helping, we can think about upping your dose. How does that sound?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” He answers, without even thinking twice. Logically Spencer knows that he has a say in it, but taking meds still feels like losing his control. It’s far from a welcome feeling.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twisting the pen cap between her fingers, Delilah asks, “How were your friends? Did you get to talk with them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a spot on the rug a couple inches away from Spencer’s foot. Focusing on it, Spencer tells himself that it’s not an avoidance tactic. “I talked with them. They’re good. It was nice seeing Mari.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? What’d you two talk about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not much.” Frowning, Spencer explains, “Small talk, I think. It was still a little weird I guess. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still good though?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still good,” Spencer confirms. “Her hair is a lot shorter than when we were at CalTech.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah agrees, “It’s always weird seeing people for the first time in years. Even when we’re not children, our looks still change so quickly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer twists his fingers around themselves. “Humans are trained to notice obvious mistakes and breaks in patterns, but not subtle ones. It’s why we can’t see the difference in people we see every day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That makes sense,” Delilah smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are certain ways to get better at noticing small details, but most observational skills are genetic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you feel about your observational skills?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Squinting, Spencer truthfully replies, “They’re good. Probably above average, which is ideal because it helps in my job.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think it’s easier with an eidetic memory?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A bit, yeah,” He answers. “But then everything becomes a ‘spot the difference’ game. I can recall what an area or object used to look like, but I still have to compare it back to what it now looks like. I don’t mind it, though. Like I said, it’s good for the job.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah nods, before taking a breath. “There’s been something that I’ve been meaning to ask, but we’ve never really had enough time to get into it. Do you mind if we have a central focus for this appointment?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shrug, Spencer replies, “I don’t think so. What’s the question?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because of your eidetic memory, do you remember all of the crimes you’ve solved?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. It’s helpful when I need to make connections to past unsubs, especially for copycats, or unsubs who immortalize other killers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cocking her head to the side, Delilah asks, “Explain to me what a ‘copycat’ is?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An unsub who has the motivations, and executions of a different, usually a famous, serial killer.” It sounds like a textbook definition, but Spencer can’t be bothered to work extra hard on communication today.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah hums. “I see. But I imagine that it’s probably difficult remembering every crime, and ever killer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not so bad. Like I said, it’s helpful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you still be grateful for your memory recall abilities if it wasn’t useful?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer questions, “What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you never needed knowledge from a past case, would you still want to remember it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The question stops Spencer’s thoughts, even if just for a split second. He opens his mouth to reply ‘yes,’ but he instantly realizes that he would’ve tacked on, ‘because it could help other victims,’ which violates the whole point of the rhetorical exercise. “I’m not sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a soft smile, Delilah replies, “That’s okay. You don’t need to know. But that is something that I’d like you to think about these next couple of days, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t even need to come back to me with an answer. Just think about it for yourself,” Delilah adds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scrunching his nose, Spencer looks up. “Do you think it would’ve been better if I couldn’t remember any of the past cases?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” She truthfully responds. “I can’t imagine that it’s easy, mentally, remembering every victim, but ultimately? I’m not you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer nods, before musing, “I think that I’m glad I can remember the cases.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh? What made you reach that conclusion?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because the victims won’t ever be forgotten.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to the park without a child hanging onto me,” Mari sighs, fondness dripping from her voice. “I can’t tell if I like it better or worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I used to take my godson, Henry, to parks sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Mari nods, “I remember you talked about him. He’s younger than my kids, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So he probably still doesn’t mind going to the park with an adult?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, Spencer admits, “I think he’s getting to that point. That being said, I’d like to think that Henry still enjoys spending time with me though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Mari insists. “Most people enjoy spending time with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help but scoff. “I think you’ve got that backwards.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Says who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Says nearly every precinct in the country.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waving a hand in front of her face, Mari just shakes her head. “Nah, they don’t know what they’re talking about. Police officers are just grumpy old men.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t help but smile at her sentiment. It’s even worse when one actually has to work with them. Or, god forbid, conduct an interview with them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling him out of his thoughts, Mari muses, “It’s really great that you’re close with all of your teammates, you know? I can tell you guys are more than just coworkers.” With a grin, she adds, “And I’m not just insinuating something with Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pauses for a second, brow furrowed, before he connects the dots. “Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Yeah,” He chuckles, “We’re all really close.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not even counting your godchildren, they seem like your family.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They are,” Spencer answers without a second thought. “I don’t know what I’d do without them. They’ve all helped me so many times.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Motioning to sit down on one of the benches, Mari asks, “Were there a lot of times?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Comes with the job,” Spencer shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a chuckle, Mari points out, “You know that’s not really an answer, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There have been a few rough times.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A few?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not going to go full therapist on me, are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, one,” She smiles, “I don’t even know what that means, and two, no, I promise. I’m asking you as a friend. But, I’ll admit, sometimes I can’t…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Turn it off?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Mari confirms, “Yeah. Same thing with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sighing, Spencer concedes, “I haven’t been able to stop profiling since I was twenty three. It gets old real quick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari gives a small laugh, before asking again, “What types of things have you gone through?” Tossing up her arms, Mari promises, “Not as a therapist. As a friend. You keep changing the subject every time I ask about cases.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re not anything too special.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer,” She starts, “You can tell me what things happened, you know. I want to reconnect with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ducking his head, Spencer nods, “I know. I do too. But it’s… they’re not… I don’t want to glorify the cases.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, I don’t want that either. But now you’re worrying me, avoiding this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can stop himself again, Spencer forces himself to open his mouth and talk. “Around ninety percent of the cases go fine, and we catch the unsub- unknown subject.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari doesn’t say anything, content with simply listening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But there are always the cases where things go wrong. Statistically, it makes sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you have your team, your family, for those cases, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer agrees, “Yeah. After the fact. But during the case we have to be a bit detached. Professional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s difficult pushing down empathy, especially because you’re autistic,” Wincing, she adds, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay. You’re the first person that ever brought it up. And for the record, I think that you’re right. I never ended up getting tested though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari just nods in response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But, yes, it’s difficult pushing down worries until the end of the case. It’s not the problem though. Every so often, we encounter an unsub that outsmarts us all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Mari soothes, “You’ve gotten through all of them, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess so. But in the moment, it never feels that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can tell you’re leading up to something,” Mari muses. “You can just say. Pros of having a therapist as a friend: there’s not much you could say that would be a first for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer gives a weak smile, anything to hide any other emotion on his face. “It was my fault when we drifted apart,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no no no, I told you, it was mine. I changed my phone, and never told you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But before that,” He insists, “I stopped talking with you. It’s because it was one of the bad cases.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Setting her hands down on her lap, Mari points out, “If you’re worried, just know that I don’t hold that against you,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got kidnapped.” There. It’s out in the open. For better or for worse. But now she knows, and Spencer’s only slightly shaking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari’s breath catches on her next inhale. “Holy shit. I’m so sorry, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t need to apologize,” Spencer blankly replies, tucking his chin into his sweatshirt, ignoring the fact that he’s at a park in the middle of summer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said this was when we drifted apart?” After a nod from Spencer, tears pool at the edges of her eyes. “You were so young.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a minute nod, Spencer agrees, “Yeah. I was.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer insists, “Don’t apologize. There’s nothing that you could’ve done. There’s nothing that you can do now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And your team helped you through it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s…” Spencer trails off, frowning at himself. “I learned two things from it. At first, when  I first got out, I realized how much the team cared, and how hard they worked to get me back from it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Mari questions, “And the other thing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The opposite.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking at the playground mulch underneath his shoes, Spencer quietly admits, “Mari, there’s a lot that you don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you talking about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a choking laugh, Spencer states, “Gideon called it torture.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari fails to suppress a flinch from his words. Out of all of the things she’s encountered as a therapist, torture, without being a metaphor, is something she’s never dug deep into. “Spencer…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It didn’t feel like that to me. It was less than forty eight hours.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seamlessly, Mari replies, “The time that it took for something to happen doesn’t define the trauma that was sustained.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It wasn’t even that bad,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t say that. Spencer, don’t- you can’t deny something like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Avoiding her words, Spencer continues, “I became a heroin addict. Dilaudid. It was expensive.” Before Mari can interject, he continues, “The team was there for me right after they found me. But I went through withdrawals alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The unspoken words are plenty loud enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They didn’t help?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t tell them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>profilers,</span>
  </em>
  <span> for God’s sake.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer insists, “They couldn’t have helped. If anyone found out, and realized that the rest of the team knew, they would’ve all been fired.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari scoffs. “I don’t care about plausible deniability when it comes to your health, when it comes to something as dangerous as that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t let them help me. I didn’t want their help, I knew I could handle it by myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer, I’ve worked with addicts. And every single one of them try to tell me the same thing. They think that they don’t deserve help, but they do. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Feeling tears come to his own eyes, Spencer forces his jaw to unclench. “It’s done, Mari. What happened, happened. It was over a decade ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I ask you if you’ve relapsed since then, as a friend, are you gonna be honest with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Skipping a step, Spencer just answers, “I thought about it. I never did. I never relapsed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sniffing, she muses, “That’s incredible, Spencer. That’s really, really impressive. You should be proud of yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t be proud of getting myself out of a hole that I dug under my feet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because it was my fault that it all happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a surge of protectiveness, Mari shakes her head. “Addiction is never the fault of the victim. Never, Spencer. Never, ever, you hear me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was my fault I got taken. It was my idea to split up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the tears steadily making their way down her face, Mari scoffs. “You can’t seriously be victim blaming yourself for getting kidnapped by a serial killer, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dropping his head, Spencer chokes out, “I don’t know. I don’t- I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I just don’t know. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I touch you?” After a small nod of confirmation, Mari touches his shoulder, from fingertips to palm, watching his reaction. When it’s not negative, she pulls Spencer into a hug, tucking his head into her shoulder, despite the difference in size.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Part of her wants to whisper something soothing, but she barely trusts herself to open her mouth without sobbing, so instead she just holds him tight. She ignores anyone else at the park, rocking slowly, her old best friend falling apart in her arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Getting her own breathing under control first, Mari ignores her tears and quietly murmurs, “I got you. You’re okay. You’re okay, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ahhhhh the ending hurt my heart to write, but it needed to get out there.</p>
<p>“The time that it took for something to happen doesn’t define the trauma that was sustained.”</p>
<p>For anyone struggling with addiction, listen to Mari. It isn't your fault, no matter what you think, and no matter what anyone tells you. No matter what you've gone through, you deserve help, and you deserve support, whether it be the first, or the hundredth time you're struggling. You are not alone, you are never alone, and I promise you that recovery is possible. Please don't hesitate to use the hotlines if needed.</p>
<p>You all mean the world to me, and thank you for sticking with me through this past week. I love you all &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Sometimes, a Deep Breath is All You Need</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's been a rough couple of days, but Spencer's slowly learning how to cope with all of the changes, both in his brain, and in the world around him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hiiiiiiii I'm so so sorry for the late update! Thank you all for sticking with me and this story, it means a lot to me :)</p><p>In this chapter there's an instance of the word "r*pe," as well as references to drugs, both by choice and being drugged non consensually. As always please take care of yourself first- this story will always, always be secondary to your health.</p><p>I love you all and please enjoy! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Spencer sits on the rug with Hank, idly rocking while rubbing his thumb over a wooden block. First with the grain, and then against. With the grain as he rocks forward, and then against the grain as he rocks back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the grain as he rocks forward, and then against the grain as he rocks back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s more soothing than he’d like to admit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding up a couple of blocks, Hank exclaims, “Look!” Before precariously stacking them on the top of his tower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer watches as the tower wobbles and waves as if it was in the wind, but ultimately, it stays standing. Even as an engineer, Spencer’s not quite sure how Hank managed that. At the moment, it looks like a rendition of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Certain buildings are made to wobble, just like Hank’s tower. From wind, and more commonly, earthquakes, it was once an engineering feat when humans began to make the bases </span>
  <em>
    <span>less </span>
  </em>
  <span>sturdy. Letting the buildings rock back and forth on purpose, going with the Earth, rather than persevering through it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’re you thinking about, Pretty Boy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Support beams,” Spencer truthfully answers, looking up at Derek. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shrug, Derek replies, “Just makin’ sure everything’s okay. You seemed anxious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From the rocking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer shakes his head. “I’m not anxious.” No more than usual, in any case. “It’s self soothing- nothing’s wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Derek then turns to his son, “And what are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinkin’ about, Little Man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank hums for a second, before confidently answering, “Blocks!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s lookin’ great, bud,” Derek smiles, ruffling the fuzz on top of Hank’s head. “You wanna tell me what you’re making?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding vigorously, Hank complies, “Buildings. Tall, tall, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>tall buildings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The taller they get, the more prone to falling over they get,” Spencer announces, moving his thumb against the grain of the wooden block. “There’s actually an equation for collapses, based on wind speed, and the volume of the building.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?” Derek asks. “Would it work here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pushing his mouth to one side, Spencer eventually settles with, “Theoretically, yes. But in practice? Probably not. It’s dangerous scaling down equations with a factor as small as this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” Derek bobs his head, “Well, if I ever need your expertise on block towers, can I count on you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watching Hank manage to stack two more blocks, Spencer stops rocking for a second. “I think Hank might be a better consultant at this point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s my man!” Derek grins. “By the way, check your phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an indingenet look, Spencer questions, “Did you look at my phone again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t need to. It’s been goin’ off like crazy since you and Mari went on a walk,” Derek answers, avoiding the fact that his kid brother came back from said walk with tear tracks down his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Spencer stands up, he keeps the block in his hand, thumb still rubbing along the sides of it. The idea of having to stop moving his thumb is nearly panic inducing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Checking his phone, Spencer gives a smile to no one in particular.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>How are u???</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Youd tell me if you weren’t okay, right?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Because im here for you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And now that were done with this case im extra here for you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Here for you squared</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Pausing for a second, Spencer does his best to think about that quantifying statement. As far as he’s concerned, that shouldn’t really be possible. How can a promise be squared? Multiplied against itself?</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m okay</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>How did the case go?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>She texts back immediately:</span>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Very boring</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But i guess thats good in this job lol</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I would definitely be inclined to agree</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Are you sure you’re okay?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Why does everyone keep asking me that?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Wait who else is asking you that???</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Luke</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Awww</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Thats cute</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer makes a face at his phone, a frown crossed with a confused smile. His reaction doesn’t even make sense to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You told him to, didn’t you?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Wdym?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>What do you mean</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You sent Hotch a file, which means that you knew what was on the file</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And you told Luke, right?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Rubbing the block with his left thumb, Spencer watches the screen of his phone as the three gray dots appear, disappear, and reappear nearly a dozen times.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I didnt know what else to do</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I was worried abt you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I told you, I’m okay</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>P. Garcia → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Promise?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → P. Garcia</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Yes</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I promise</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>After Garcia sends a heart, Spencer sends one back, reciprocating any emotion that social construct demands him to do. It’s not like he minds, though. Spencer feels the same way as Garcia. Then, biting the inside of his mouth, Spencer’s thumb hovers over Luke’s contact, wishing that he had another block for his right hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the moment, he’d much prefer sitting with Hank than communicating with his teammates. It feels like he’s done enough communicating for a lifetime, and then some. Then again, it’s not the first time that he’s felt like that, and Spencer knows that it’s not going to be the last either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Huffing to himself, Spencer opens Luke’s texts.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>So we got back from montana</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>The case went well</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And the unsub even gave himself up after we cornered him so that was nice</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Noen of us are hurt</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>*none</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And so it made paperwork even better haha</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Sorry i didnt mean to go off on a ramble</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Want to get together some time before the next case?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer hasn’t quite figured out what it is yet, but there’s something endearing about the way Luke texts. It’s not the multiple small texts- at least Spencer’s pretty sure that it’s not. And it’s not his diction, because some of his other friends text with similar grammar and word choices as Luke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there’s something about his texts in particular that just seem to make communication a little bit easier.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m really happy that the case went well and that nobody was hurt</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And it’s nice that you’re back in town</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprising Spencer, Luke is already typing back.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Yeah im happy to be out of montana</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Not that i have anything against montana or anything</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>But it’s not home</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Exactly</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>How’d you know thats what i was going to say lol</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Lucky guess, based off of the context</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Although I have to admit, usually my guesses aren’t correct when it comes to speaking</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Or texting</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Lol</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Do you want to get together?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>It doesnt have to be like a date</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Unless you want it to</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I just want to see you</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>That sounded creepy didnt it?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>It didn’t sound creepy to me</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And yes, I’d like to see you as well. In a non-creepy way</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Lmao</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>When are you free?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Most of the time</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>All I have are sporadic therapy appointments</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>They aren’t sporadic, I don’t know why I said that</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Mutely, Spencer wants to bang his head against the kitchen counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh okay cool</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I mean</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Wait is that insensitive?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>No</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Oh okay good</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>That was weird i almost replied the same exact way</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Anyway</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>What about tomorrow?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>That works</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I can come to your house?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Definitely!</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>And roxy will be able to see you too</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I will see you tomorrow</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Yep!</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Still a little confused from the conversation in its entirety, Spencer shakes his head and sets his phone down. With a deep breath, he walks away, back to Hank and Derek, who seem to be in a deep conversation about wooden towers falling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank’s making little sound effects, and after a few seconds, Derek joins in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aww, kid, you missed it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking up, Spencer questions, “Missed what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grin, Derek replies, “The great fall,” Motioning to the floor, covered in scatter blocks, he adds, “Hank’s tower got a little too unstable. We didn’t have any of your equations to fix it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how much I would’ve helped,” Spencer admits, but still sinks back to the floor to join them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Hank happily begins stacking blocks again, Cloony pads over, looking between the three of them before settling next to Spencer, paws just on the edge of Spencer’s leg, as if asking for permission.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help it when he feels a rush of happiness start from his chest and flood out to the rest of his body. Keeping his left thumb on the wooden block, Spencer pets Cloony with his other hand. It’s nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peaceful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost feels like the world can’t get to him when he’s like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every Morgan is asleep, except maybe not Savannah, who’s on the night shift again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer, on the other hand, has barely been able to close his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of it is the fear of dreams that Spencer knows are coming, and part of it is a mystery. Even though he knows he should, Spencer barely feels tired. He’s had one hell of an exhausting day, yet his brain still hasn’t settled down for the evening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not so much frustrating as just annoying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another reminder that Spencer’s brain holds complete power over him. He supposes it’s a little frustrating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a groan, Spencer quietly gets out of bed and heads downstairs, before snagging a piece of paper. He doesn’t have Mari’s pen with him downstairs, but at the moment, Spencer doesn’t mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi Mom,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s Spencer. I hope that you’re doing well.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you, but I know that it’s sometimes hard for you to reply. I want you to know that I’m not holding it against you or anything of the sort. I’ve still been meaning to plan a visit, but it’s just been escaping my mind if I’m being completely honest. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a lot that’s been going on since about a month ago. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It feels like a lifetime ago, actually.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t believe that Texas was only a month ago.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I got hurt in Dallas, but it’s nothing to worry about. Plus I have my friends to take care of me, so I'm definitely doing okay. Everything has just been a mess.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But hopefully things are slowly getting better. It feels like that, anyway.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I saw Mari for the first time in about ten years, which was really nice. She’s changed a lot since college, but at the same time, she’s exactly how I remembered her.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’s just as brilliant as I remember her too. I know that she’s made a difference as a therapist, even if I’ve never seen her work. I can just tell. I can’t explain it either.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve always shown me what that’s like. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We had an extremely long talk earlier today,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Actually, it’s past midnight, so we had a long talk yesterday. My point is, it was a really good one. The type of things that I think I needed to hear from a friend, not just from a therapist like Delilah.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She ate dinner with the Morgans, but then went back to a hotel, but the entire time I was just thinking about the things that she told me. And then I thought about the fact that in a couple days she’s going to go back home, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to see her again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Just as we’re going to get close, she’s going to leave again, and I’m already dreading it. To the point where I can barely enjoy Mari while she’s here, just because I know that it’s not going to last. I know how it’s going to end.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I need to sleep. I’m writing this in the middle of the night, and I can never keep track of my thoughts without rest. Everything feels too raw and upfront, and I can’t do anything about it. I hate it all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I’m going to try and sleep.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I don’t think that I’m going to send this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The pile beside my bed is growing with every day. Maybe I’ll get a folder or something to put all of these unsent letters in. Either that or a trash can.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I hate that they’re here, and other times they’re the only things that keep me sane. Metaphorically, that is. I think.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goodnight, mom.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using her absolute best type of puppy eyes, Roxy stares up at Spencer, saliva covered tennis ball at her paws. Spencer looks back at her, a smile coming to his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d think I never play with her,” Luke mutters, giving his dog a few scratches behind her ear, “With the way that she acts whenever you come over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shrugging, Spencer points out, “I’m a different person, so she’s probably just taking advantage of that fact. She thinks she’s being clever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sneaky, huh Rox?” Luke questions, pretending to stare her down. “You wouldn’t try to cheat around me, would you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a response, Roxy just whines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh. We’ll go for a walk soon, but not while Spencer’s here, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer looks between the two beings, not exactly sure what to make with the one sided conversation. Although, based on the look Roxy is giving Luke, Spencer’s not one hundred percent sure that it even is one sided.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She seems to know exactly what’s going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reaching down to pet Roxy himself, Spencer starts, “We can go for a walk. With Roxy, I mean. If you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Luke asks. “Or are you just saying that because my dog is excellent at conning everyone who walks in the door?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help but let a chuckle escape. “I’m sure. Plus I think I’d be able to tell if I was getting conned by a dog.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You say that now,” Luke grumbles with a smile, grabbing Roxy’s leash from a hook by the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Roxy immediately trots over, seemingly pleased with herself and her ability to control their date. Assuming it is a date. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this a date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke’s hand stops mid motion, looking a bit like a deer in headlights. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using his hands to gesture around the room, Spencer awkwardly clarifies, “This. What we’re doing. Is this a date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Luke makes a bit of a nervous noise before replying, “I’m not sure? Do you want it to be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I just haven’t been on many dates. Or ever. Maybe? Not anything official.” Thinking back on it, Spencer can’t place what he and Ethan did on weekends. Were those dates? He doesn’t even know the difference between spending time with someone and having a date with someone. There’s got to be something he’s missing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking about as confused as Spencer feels, Luke tries, “I guess I don’t really know. This doesn’t have to be anything special. We can just spend time together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer agrees, “That sounds good. I’d like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And with my dog,” Luke grins, as Roxy wags her tail in agreement. “There’s a few parks in the neighborhood, if you’d like to see them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer smiles. “I’d- yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the awkwardness that both of the men seem to hold, the walk comes easily, and the conversation even more so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few blocks over, Spencer is confident enough in his conversational skills to start a new topic. “My friend is visiting right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s awesome!” Luke grins, “Who are they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her name is Mari. We met at CalTech.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long is she gonna be here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a frown, Spencer admits, “I don’t actually know. The next few days at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke nods, eyes settling between Roxy and Spencer. “I don’t think I’ve met any of your friends, now that I think about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Spencer gives a self deprecating laugh, “I don’t really have many friends outside of the BAU. Actually, I think Mari is the only one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.” Without any judgement, Luke muses, “I’ve never heard of her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been years since we’ve talked. About a decade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would explain it,” With a light laugh, Luke grins up at Spencer. “So is she another genius like you? I mean, she’d have to be pretty damn smart if she went to CalTech, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer confirms, “She is extremely intelligent. Mari is… brilliant, but in a way that you wouldn’t even notice. I don’t know how to explain it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel like you explained it pretty well right there,” Luke points out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Giving a weak smile, Spencer nods, “I guess you’re right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the three of them reach the next block, Luke looks down at Roxy and questions, “Alright, right or left?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thoroughly amused, Spencer watches as Roxy seems to debate it for a second before pulling her leash to the left. At this point, Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if Roxy somehow understood English. At least when it comes from Luke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Barely stopping himself from biting through his lip, Spencer announces, “So I’m not going to be going back to work soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instantly on high alert, Luke questions, “Oh? Why? If you want to tell me, that is. You don’t have to. Only if you want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just,” Spencer shakes his head, “I’m not ready to go back to work. I’m not- it’s not-” With a frustrated huff to himself, Spencer tries again, “I don’t want something to happen again, something like what happened in Dallas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke nods, “I get it. Dallas was pretty scary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to apologize. It was kind of out of your control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a swallow, Spencer looks up, “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the walk is blessedly light, and Spencer pays special attention to anything he says, ensuring that it can’t connect to anything that went on in the past week. It’s nice. The two of them just being able to talk about the most random and mundane topics. It feels like it’s been years since Spencer’s been able to do that at length.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, when they get home, Spencer decides that he needs to say something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Luke is refilling Roxy’s water, Spencer speaks up from the couch, surprised that he even gets a single word out. “Luke,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was a reason why Garcia kept telling you to check up on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man is quiet for a few moments, before setting Roxy’s dish down and taking his place on the side of the couch. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’m glad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I want to tell you what happened,” Spencer adds in a rush, barely leaving any space between the words themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke nods for a second before shaking his head. “You don’t have to. There’s no obligation. You know that, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grabbing the hem of his own shirt by the fistful, Spencer gives a jerky nod. “I want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. I- yeah. Go for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not knowing how else to start it, Spencer just pushes out, “I remember what happened in Mexico.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Understandably, Luke is quiet for a moment. “And you’re okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am now,” Spencer reiterates, falling back on familiar lines of dialogue. When in doubt, Spencer knows that he can always say something that worked last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking a bit to the left, Luke asks, “Is this why you’re not coming back to work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Half of it,” Spencer nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the other half?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence, long enough for Roxy to pad over, looking between the two of them before settling on the ground next to Spencer, lightly resting her snouth by his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shaky breath, Spencer lightly pets her, before his hands go back to wringing out themselves. “I remember what happened in Mexico,” He replies again, cursing his brain for the lack of conversational skills he can never seem to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to tell me? You don’t have to. But I’m here to listen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer agrees, “I remember what happened in Mexico. I want to tell you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Yeah. Go for it. Whenever you’re ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling the skin off of his thumb cuticle, Spencer takes a breath. “I was drugged, but I could remember everything, because I had built up a resistance on the type of drug she used because I was addicted to Dilaudid. Am. I still am. Addiction lasts for a lifetime. Brains never forget the euphoria of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Luke’s credit, he doesn’t make any indication of his surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was trying to do the right thing. All I wanted to do was the right thing. I wanted my mom to be healthy and I wanted her to be happy and I was just trying to do the right thing. I was trying to do the right thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Luke agrees, “I know you were. You’re a good person, Spencer. I know you were trying to do the right thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just trying to do the right thing. Cat Adams was not. She was not trying to do the right thing. She has an obsession with me, and she was not trying to do the right thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Cat- Cat isn’t a good person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer blankly states, “She raped me. It was her idea and her doing, even though it was Lindsey. Cat wasn’t trying to do the right thing, even though I was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long few seconds, Luke doesn’t say anything. “That’s fucked up. I’m so fucking sorry. Holy shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding in agreement, Spencer replies, “I was just trying to do the right thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d ask if you were okay again, but that’s a pretty stupid question at this point. Is there anything- I mean- can I do anything to help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer stares at Luke, unsure of what he should say. All of the words float around his head, but none of them connect into a sentence, and even if they did, Spencer wouldn’t even trust himself to get it out. No matter what he does, the words just weave around the gray matter in his mind, refusing to bind with anything else, like oil and water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Roxy whines, high and keening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spencer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding up his thumb, Spencer blinks, “I’m bleeding.” Sure enough, blood has pooled around his cuticle, beads forming before gravity drags them down the rest of his thumb, leaving a horrific streak of dark red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can deal with that,” Luke nods, before nearly jumping off of the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watching him leave, Spencer reiterates to the air, “I’m bleeding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke comes back a second later, before perching himself on the cushion beside Spencer. Roxy dutifully switches to his other side. “Small sting,” He warns, before tearing open a small alcohol pad, wiping up the drips down his thumb, all the way up until it reaches his nail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, with a care that only Roxy has witnessed before, Luke carefully unwraps the bandaid, before wrapping it around Spencer’s thumb. “Not too tight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not too tight,” Spencer echos. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, Luke stands again. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confirming, Spencer replies, “Get you some water.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ears on high alert, Roxy hops on the couch, knowing that this is one of the situations that she’s allowed to do so. She knows Luke won’t be angry with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With slow eyes, Spencer watches as Roxy places herself on the cushion Luke had previously occupied, before putting a paw on his leg. After Spencer doesn’t give any adverse reaction, Roxy adds another paw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking down at the canine, Spencer tells her, “I was just trying to do the right thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A second later, Luke appears with the promised glass of water. “Here,” He says with a smile, worriness creeping out of his voice like a poorly built dam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer takes a sip, before staring down at Roxy. Besides a few turns of her ears, she stays rather still, only occasionally moving her paws around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is your thumb okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taken aback by the question, it takes a moment for Spencer’s mind to register the noises and turn them into the words. “Yes. My thumb is okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke smiles at Spencer for a few seconds, before it falls back down. “Thank you for telling me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just trying to do good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” He promises. “I know you, Spencer. Maybe not as long as the rest of the BAU, but I know you. You’re a good person. You’d never choose to do anything bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting a hand between Roxy’s ears, Spencer looks up at Luke. “This is an awful date.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke can’t help but laugh, looking down at the couch in embarrassment from his reaction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everytime I go to your house it ends with the same thing. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be sorry,” Luke shakes his head. “You’re trying to do a lot at once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a frown, Spencer questions, “Sit on the couch and drink water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be in a relationship and heal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. I was thinking too literally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shrugging, Luke muses, “Eh. Happens to the best of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have a hobby?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grimacing, Spencer immediately shakes his head. “That didn’t come out how I wanted it to. I’m not teasing you. It’s a genuine question. Emily asked me about my hobbies, and I couldn’t think of any. Do you have hobbies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking for a second, Luke answers, “I like to run. Whenever we don’t have cases I spend a fair amount of time doing long distance. And if you call ‘petting the dog’ a hobby, then I’d definitely count that. I also like cooking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I need a hobby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a look, Luke asks, “You don’t have any hobbies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like reading.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luke nods, “See, that’s a hobby. Something that you enjoy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rethinking his words, Spencer states, “I want a new hobby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. What do you want to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to go to my apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you up for it?” Luke questions, worry seeping through his voice once again. Although he doesn’t want to be the one to mention the fact that Spencer nearly broke down on his couch, he will for his safety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer points out, “My apartment is safe. There’s only a small chance that it’ll make things worse for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I trust you. You wanna go now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer swallows, looking down at his thumb. “Will you come with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grinning, Luke confirms, “Yeah, of course! I think I’ve only been to your apartment once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It hasn’t changed much,” Spencer admits. “I don’t like change. Or when things change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what you’re saying,” Luke starts, “Is that you still have the broken coffee mug in your sink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a smile of his own, Spencer shakes his head. “I don’t dislike change </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>much. Besides, it made washing the dishes difficult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke just laughs, before grabbing his keys and motioning for Spencer to head out of the door with him. Roxy looks a bit unsettled by the sudden development, but Luke knows that she’ll be able to handle it. Better than he can, at any rate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between directions, Spencer speaks about the psychological and health benefits of having hobbies, something to do in one’s downtime. Specifically, something that brings joy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprising him, Luke doesn’t ever interrupt or ask him to stop. He even periodically asks questions about something, hoping to expand the knowledge that he already has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they arrive at Spencer’s apartment complex, he scrunches his eyes together. “You’re like Mari.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How so?” Luke confusedly asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re brilliant.” Spencer plainly states. “But in a way that nobody seems to notice. You speak multiple languages, and you’re always eager to learn. But nobody realizes that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shrugging, Luke replies, “I’m okay with that. It doesn’t bother me. In fact, in this line of work, it sometimes helps me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer nods. “They underestimate you, draw their own conclusions. And then you’re able to use that against them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Closing the car door, Spencer muses, “Overlooked brilliance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Luke smiles, looking at Spencer with a fondness that the other man can’t quite place. It’s so shockingly familiar, yet also something that Spencer swears he’s never experienced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Spencer opens his door and Luke grins, he isn’t quite sure what to do. Looking around at his own living space, he questions, “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just have so many books. Have you read all of them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” He confidently answers. “For the books that I keep this close to me, I’ve read them all multiple times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wandering over to a stack, Luke points out, “It would probably take me a year to read a single one of these. And you’ve read them all more than once?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doing his best to crack a joke, Spencer confirms, “Light reading.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh,” Luke chuckles back. “So what’d you want to get from here? Some books?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer says, “No. Not quite,” Before heading to his closet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor is still dirty, littered with clothes when Spencer tried his best to find his dad’s jacket, and he can’t help but feel a bit self conscious from it. Surely Luke knows that he wouldn’t ordinarily live like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is what I was looking for,” Spencer announces, holding up the keyboard he bought after the case with Sammy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke raises his eyebrows. “I never knew you played piano.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t. Not really,” Comes Spencer’s answer. “Before you joined the BAU we had a case where the only witness was an autistic middle schooler, Sammy. Music helped him communicate, and after I figured I’d try it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer answers, “I wasn’t able to stick with it. For a little over half of the days, I couldn’t even play a single note because of my migraines. It was when my headaches were the worst. I kept it out for a bit, but after Emily faked her death, I packed it back up and put it in my closet. I don’t even know where the stand is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My sister used to take piano lessons when we were little. Really little. Elementary school, I think,” Luke replies, squinting at himself as if that will help recover the memories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you ever play?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” Luke shakes his head, “But sometimes she’d convince me to sit down on the bench and hit some keys with her. It’s not like either of us were musicians.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an understanding nod, Spencer sets the box down on his bed, doing his best to ignore the fact that there are nearly a dozen blankets on top. “I think I’d like to start playing again. A new hobby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should. I bet you’d be great at it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can stop himself, Spencer unboxes the keyboard, before dragging the cord to the nearest outlet. After another quick glance around the room, Spencer still doesn’t see the stand, so he just leaves it on his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting cross legged in front of it, he gently puts his left hand down, as if even the lightest of pressure could break it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The notes seem to naturally come to him. B, D, F#, G. B, D, F# G.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting on the bed himself, Luke asks, “What’s that from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sammy. The autistic boy from the case. This was his favorite song, and he taught me how to play it,” Spencer answers, smiling a bit from the memory. He continues, pinkie, middle finger, index finger, thumb, B, D, F#, G, B.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>B, D, F#, G. B, D, F# G.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking up, Spencer asks, “Do you want to try?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nervously laughing, Luke shakes his head. “Like I said, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my sister and I banging on the piano when we were little, it’s that I’m not a musician.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s only four notes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m definitely not a musician,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pushing the keyboard closer to Luke, Spencer points to the B. “Try it. I’m not a musician either. Put your pinkie there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Luke complies, Spencer then points to the D. “Middle finger there,” He adds, before tapping on the F#. “That’s where your index finger goes. And then here,” Spencer pressed down a half step above it, “That’s where your thumb goes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although it’s not without awkwardness, Luke is able to fit all of his fingers where they belong. “I feel like my fingers are too big for this,” He laughs, eyes locked onto the keys, not daring to take them off for even a second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer gives a laugh of his own, before protesting, “I’m sure it’s fine. Try playing all of them in order, one at a time. From the bottom, pinkie, to your thumb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sticking a bit of his thumb out in concentration, Luke complies, before grinning. “I did it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah!” Spencer grins back. “Try it again.” After the four notes echo around the room once more, Spencer climbs around the bed to sit on the right side of Luke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deep in thought, neither of them notice that their shoulders are nearly touching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thinking back to the day with Sammy, Spencer finds the B on the next octave up. With unsure fingers, he plays the melody. B, D, the next octave up B, A, and then back to the lower B, D, and back to B. His hand feels clunky, the unfamiliar feeling rising up his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luke pauses his four notes as Spencer works out the melody, but doesn’t move his hand. He knows that if he does, he’ll never be able to find the same four notes again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Spencer announces, “Now play those notes, from pinkie to thumb, over and over again. But not too fast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got it,” Luke nods, doing his best to give all of the notes the same amount of time and pressure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few cycles, Spencer begins the melody, smile growing from small to wide in a matter of seconds. Even if he wanted to, Spencer wouldn’t be able to stop it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And after a quick glance to Luke, Spencer knows that he feels the same way.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Love me some piano. I don't think I've ever mentioned this, but I've actually been playing piano for nearly my entire life (started when I was three, curtesy of the Asian mom jajaja), and I've wanted to put more piano in since the second and third chapters of Charcoal. Plus the two of them playing piano was almost too cute for me to handle lmao</p><p>Also if you couldn't tell today has been a very Autism day for me and that's the only way I know how to explain it</p><p>Anyway. Sorry again for the rather sporadic updates, and for the week inbetween this chapter and eleven! Thank you for sticking with me, and thank you for all of your support! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. All So Lovely</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Spencer wonders if this is what a normal life is supposed to be like.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! And surprise! It's only been a few days! :D I don't know why, but I've just been on such a writing streak the past few days. This chapter was so much fun to write, and I hope that you guys like it!</p>
<p>Enjoy! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Not for the first time in Spencer’s life, he finds himself in a staring match with his socks. Which is strange, other than the obvious, because for the past few years he hasn’t given more than a single glance at his socks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But today, Spencer’s found himself staring at them, eyeing them as if that will help his decision. The dreadful decision, where he knows what the right answer is. The problem though, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the problem</span>
  </em>
  <span> is that the right and wrong answers are the same thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hot outside. Really, really hot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So far, it’s been the warmest day in the area, a nice sunny June morning, and according to the forecast, it’s just going to get warmer as the day goes on. Even though it shouldn’t, this factors into the equation. It shouldn’t though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It shouldn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All that Spencer should be worrying about is the armor that he needs to protect himself from the world, not what the weather is going to be like today. He should be focusing on the world and their evil hands, and how every time Spencer doesn’t cover his feet, something bad happens. It’s not like he needs to be reminded of that fact.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clothes are armor, and they protect him from the world. That’s been proven, time, after time, after time again. Socks protect him, whether or not anyone else realizes it. The temperature shouldn’t change this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it is hot. There’s already a collection of sweat on the bottom of Spencer’s feet, and it’s rather disgusting. Then again, that’s a small price to pay in order to keep him safe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s uncomfortable. Really, really uncomfortable. Spencer wants to be able to move and wiggle his toes easily, and it’ll be more difficult if he puts on another pair of socks. His feet already feel like they’re suffocating, and it’ll just be worse if he chooses the right decision.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, the wrong decision.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wrong and the right decisions are all the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t even know why he’s debating this with himself. The answer should be obvious: put on another pair of socks. Protect himself from the world, from Hankel, from the evil hands that are still determined out to get him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just because he hasn’t worked in a month doesn’t mean that the dastardly parts of the world are just going to start ignoring him. He wears layers for safety. No matter where he goes, or what happens, Spencer’s always going to need safety.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Staring at the pair of socks on the bed, Spencer thinks back to all of the times he didn’t have the extra layers. How it always seemed to end in hell. How the one time it ended in his death. He died. The socks weren’t there to protect him, and he died.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Putting on the extra pair should be a no brainer. He’s been doing it for a decade, over a decade, yet his hands won’t follow his brain and put on the extra pair of socks. It’s more armor. It’s safety. It’s the only way that he can protect himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But his toes already feel cramped and it’s only going to get worse when he puts on his shoes, so is it really worth it? Of course. It’s always worth it. It’s either that or death. Spencer would much rather feel uncomfortable than die.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants to put on the extra pair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to put on the extra pair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s brain has rarely made sense to the world, and sometimes it feels like it’s never made sense to himself either. Whichever decision he makes, it’ll be the wrong one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There shouldn’t even be a debate, though. This should’ve only taken Spencer one, maybe even two seconds  if he’s feeling generous. He should’ve instantly put on another pair of socks, and then put on another one, just in case. Spencer shouldn’t be debating this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shouldn’t be debating this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He shouldn’t be debating this.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is only one answer, and it’s the one that’s going to keep him safe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Halfway pulling him from his thoughts, Derek shouts from downstairs, “Pretty Boy, you’re gonna be late!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a quick glance to his watch, Spencer knows that he’s right. He has to make a decision, or he’ll just end with more stress. It shouldn’t be hard to make the decision.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s really only one decision.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Spencer makes the wrong one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the car pulls away from the Morgan household, a mismatched pair of striped and plain socks lie on the guest bed, waiting patiently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it was the right choice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though he knows Delilah doesn’t care, Spencer wishes that his knee would stop bouncing. No matter how many times he wills himself to stop, his brain never seems to be able to carry the signal all of the way down to the ball of his foot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where there’s only one layer, save for his shoes, between him and the evil world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jerking up, Spencer questions, “Sorry, what? I- I missed what you said.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a polite smile, far too polite, she must be hiding something, Delilah reiterates, “I was just wondering how the past few days have been for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Spencer nods. “Very good. Mari is still here, and I was able to catch up with her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad. How long is she staying for?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scrunching his face, Spencer admits, “I’m not actually sure. She hasn’t even bought a plane ticket back, so I don’t think she knows either. She’s going to at some point, though,” Spencer adds. “She has a family in Indianapolis.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you feel about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About what? Her having a family?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking her head, Delilah expands, “No. About her leaving. Are you worried? Looking forward to it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not looking forward to it,” Comes the quick response. “But I understand why it’s necessary. I knew that she wouldn’t be staying for long.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah nods, before asking, “Are you planning on doing anything special with her while she’s here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Spencer answers, “I’m not sure. I haven’t actually thought about that. I obviously want to spend time with her, but I’m not sure how.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to make a plan when hanging out with friends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s true. I might introduce her to Luke, and vice versa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Delilah says, “That would be fun. How is it going with Luke? It’s been awhile since I’ve heard you talk about him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though Spencer knows he’s absolutely terrible at hiding his emotions, he still feels silly when he can’t help but smile. “It’s good. We’re good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad,” Delilah grins. “Have you seen him lately?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just yesterday,” Spencer confirms. “We spent the afternoon and evening together.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And how was that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. It was a lot of fun. We played piano,” He supplies, before he can stop himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cocking her head to the side, Delilah muses, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about piano before. Do you play a lot?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not at all. I tried, around five and a half years ago, but it never really stuck.” Spencer doesn’t add the fact that it was because of chronic psychosomatic migraines. That’s definitely something that he doesn’t want to get into.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah nods, before asking, “What made you want to try it again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Emily asked me about hobbies. Other than reading and learning, I don’t think that I have any other hobbies, but I wanted one,” Spencer answers. “The only other thing I could think of was piano.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling her pen away from the paper, Delilah confirms, “And you enjoyed it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer grins again. “I enjoyed it a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you played some piano with Luke?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. I enjoyed that as well. Neither of us have ever really played, so we were both on even ground when it came to learning a song. Actually, that’s not true. I memorized a song from a case, six years ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With another nod, Delilah asks, “And you played that song?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If it was from a case, did it bring up any memories?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s never quite understood the phrase of “bringing up memories,” but he supposes that it might be a symptom of having an eidetic memory. He never has to bring up any memories- they’re always at the front of his mind. “Not like what you’re thinking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With raised eyebrows, Delilah questions, “And what do you think I’m thinking about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That it would bring up trauma.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose you’re not too far off,” She answers with a smile. “Were you thinking about the case?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer concedes, “A bit. But in a good way. The case was difficult, and didn’t necessarily have a good ending. Not by most standards.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did it end?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We took down the unsub, but we couldn’t save the last victim.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somber, Delilah agrees, “I can see why that wouldn’t be much of a good ending. But that’s not just what you were thinking about, was it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Spencer shakes his head. “For the entirety of the case, I worked with an autistic boy, Sammy. His father was the last victim.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scribbling something down, Delilah asks, “How was that? Working with someone who’s autistic, that is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was,” Spencer trails off, doing his best to get all of his thoughts in order. “It was good. Amazing. I was able to connect with him, and it felt like, for the first time in years, that I was communicating with someone who actually understood me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah smiles softly. “So it was a good case in that regard?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you spoken with this boy since the case?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shoulders dropping a bit, Spencer shakes his head. “No. I haven’t seen him since then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you wish you had?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” He truthfully admits. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking that as an answer, Delilah nods, writing down something else in her notes. No matter how hard Spencer squints, he can never quite tell what she’s recording. It bothers him a bit less than it did when they first met.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>However, that’s not to say that it doesn’t still bother him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Using her pen to point, Delilah asks, “What happened to your thumb? That wasn’t there the last time I saw you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing down at the bandaid he already knew was there, Spencer starts, “I-” before cutting himself off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He touched me,” Spencer quietly says, frowning at his thumb as if it holds all of the mystery of his world. “He touched my thumb. And I didn’t even notice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s ‘he’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blinking away from his thumb, Spencer looks up. “Luke. Luke put a bandaid on my thumb. And he- he touched me. And I didn’t notice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah soothes, “Okay, take a deep breath, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am,” He says, before realizing that he definitely wasn’t. Following her guidance. Albeit shakily, Spencer takes a moment to just breathe. Eventually, he gets out, “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you feeling about it now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I’m not sure how I should be feeling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leaning forward, Delilah points out, “There are no wrong answers. Feelings aren’t something that are right or wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pregnant pause, before Spencer mumbles, “Nothing bad happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Although I’m happy to hear that,” Delilah starts, “I don't think I know what you’re referring to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luke touched me,” Spencer explains with a bob of his head, indulging in the familiar stim. “I didn’t have any armor on. And Luke touched me. And nothing bad happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding in understanding, Delilah asks, “And you’re used to bad things happening after being touched.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Always. Always after it. When I don’t have armor, people touch, and when that happens, bad things follow. Always.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think about that now? Luke touched your thumb yesterday and nothing bad happened, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer replies, “There are always outliers, no matter how perfect a data set may be. That’s all it was. An outlier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah barely lets a fraction of a second pass, before she’s already asking, “And what if it wasn’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Spencer’s no idiot. He knows that it can’t be a new trend. He knows. He does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What if the fact that nothing bad happened wasn’t an outlier?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is,” Spencer presses, thinking back to all of the data he’s collected in his mind over the years. “It has to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crossing her legs, Delilah continues, “And what would happen if it wasn’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s jaw clenches of its own accord, barely softening enough to let him speak again. “I don’t know. I don’t- there’s no data.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does that make you worried?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking up, Spencer forcefully replies, “There’s always data. There are always patterns in the world. If this is the beginning of a new pattern, I don’t know what it is. A single data point isn’t enough to draw any conclusions. It’s impossible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It could be the first data point in a set.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head again, Spencer reiterates, “The chance of that is miniscule. It’s an outlier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want it to be an outlier?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks down at his thumb, bandaid wrapped around the cuticle, not too tight, and not too loose. “No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After the third loop around the park, Spencer speaks up. “I know that you probably meant it rhetorically, definitely not literally, but you could give a shovel talk to Luke if you’d like. I think I’d like you two to meet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He says it all in a rush, giving Mari barely any time to digest the words. “Honestly? I’d love to meet him. And only slightly threaten him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please don’t threaten him,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, fine,” Mari teases, “But I’m still giving him a shovel talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a scrunched nose, Spencer questions, “Doesn’t that entail threats?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not always.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You seem to be an expert on shovel talks,” Spencer smiles, tapping a pinecone on the ground, watching it roll unevenly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling back, Mari insists, “Oh, I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who have you ever given a shovel talk to? You said your kids were too little.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My younger sister. And I gave the greatest talk ever. She never came home with another boy again.” Cocking her head to the side, Mari adds, “Although then she brought home a girl. Take what you will from that. You remember her, right? My sister?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprising Spencer, Mari laughs to herself, “Sorry, that’s probably a stupid question, given that you have an eidetic memory.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shrug, Spencer just replies, “It’s a common phrase. I understand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve got me there. So when would I be meeting Luke?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I didn’t really think that far.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When you figure it out, you let me know, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer nods. “I will. I think you’ll like Luke. He also has a dog. Her name is Roxy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you still have that weird thing with pets?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning to face Spencer, Mari tries, “You know, that thing where they just don’t like you. That’s how it was at CalTech, remember? You and animals have never been exactly simpatico.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grinning to no one in particular, Spencer says, “The Reid Effect.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The what now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what Hotch always called it. It happened with babies and animals.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari snorts at that. “I can’t believe he named it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I couldn’t believe it either,” Spencer admits. “But the name sort of stuck. Until it wasn’t viable anymore.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Latching onto the collar of his sweatshirt, Spencer just shrugs. “I dunno. I just sort of outgrew the Reid Effect, I guess. Animals and children aren’t bothered by me anymore. Or vice versa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good,” Mari grins. “I remember the first time you saw Marty. You looked like you were going to throw up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thinking back to it, Spencer gives a shy laugh. “I think I felt like I was going to throw up.” A second later, Spencer looks back up. “Oh. I know what change.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Henry. JJ had her son. And she let me hold him before he was even a day old.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mari makes an appreciative sound, smiling at the thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer confesses, “It’s like that just changed everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s so cute,” Mari says. At Spencer’s slightly alarmed look, she continues, “I’m serious! That’s honestly an adorable story.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks down again, feeling heat rise to his cheeks once again. “Do you want to keep walking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m good either way. Do you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a second, Spencer answers, “I think I want to go back to the house. Write my mom a letter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Mari chooses her next words carefully. “I always worried about your parents.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were a little kid at college, Spencer. Half the kids I knew that were your age would barely handle a sleep-away summer camp. And speaking of summers, you never went home. So yeah, I worried. I worried a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry for worrying you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shrug, Mari replies, “Don’t be. I think everyone was anxious about the twelve year old.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they turn the corner, Spencer smiles at her. “In any case, you don’t need to worry anymore. My dad hasn’t been a part of my life since I was ten years old, and now my mom is safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was she not before?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer replies, “She couldn’t take care of herself. She’s a paranoid schizophrenic. I write letters to her now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure she likes that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think she does. I hope so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two of them walk back to the Morgan household in amiable silence. Even as Spencer’s thoughts threaten to break his good mood, he’s able to push them back down. If nothing bad happens today, then maybe his thumb wasn’t an outlier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just maybe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s Spencer, and I hope that you’re doing well.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve had an extremely exciting past couple of days. Even though there’s a lot going on in my life, it feels like the events that have just occurred takes precedent for it all.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Remember when I told you about Luke? After Morgan left, that’s who joined our team. Luke Alvez. You’d definitely like him, and he’s an excellent profiler. And he speaks multiple languages, so I know you’d love having a conversation with him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>We’re also in a relationship together. I don’t understand the official standings of it all, but both of us can agree on that. It’s nice. Nicer than I thought it would be, if I’m being completely honest. It feels different than what I had with Ethan. Astronomically different from what Maeve and I were like.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I loved her, there’s no doubt about that. But something is different when it comes to Luke. I probably sound very sappy right now.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps I’ll go read some of the poetry that you used to read to me. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re in love, right? Read poetry? It’s become a bit of a design in modern times, even though poetry wasn’t necessarily created for love.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sonnets are a different story- but that’s just a subset of poetry.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know why I’m even telling you all of this, I know that you already know it. Sometimes it’s just nice to get my thoughts out, you know? I understand why you spent hours upon hours huddled over books, desperate to find certain words. You were just trying to make sense of everything around you, right?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I know the feeling now.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not sure if I’m going to send this one. I’ll keep it by the bed for now. I still haven’t found a way to organize all of these unsent letters, even though I need one. I guess having the oldest ones on the bottom of the pile counts as a bit of organization.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But then, you always told me, it only needs to make sense to me. As long as I understood the world, no one else needed to understand how.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think about that a lot.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, mom. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Staring up at the ceiling, it’s almost dark enough that Spencer can’t tell when he closes his eyes. Almost- not quite. Even in complete darkness, the black somehow grows whenever he closes his eyes. It’s just all vulnerability. Every time he closes his eyes, it gives the wicked parts of the world the chance to take a step closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re quiet and sneaking, and Spencer knows that at any given opportunity, the grasping hands will be able to find him. Especially since he let his armor down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost religiously, Spencer checks his phone again. There’s still an hour left in the day. Once that hour’s passed, then maybe, just maybe, he’ll stay safe. Maybe the fact that Luke touched his thumb won’t be a catalyst for the evil finding him once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Huddled underneath half a dozen blankets, three pairs of socks on, Spencer can only hope, even though he knows it’s childish. Hope is going to do nothing here. Either the world will punish him, or it won’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s out of his control at this point. Spencer can’t make any move that’ll save him. He wonders if this is what his mother felt when she was losing her grip on reality.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer blinks, he frowns. Opening his eyes doesn’t give him the same respite as it previously did, and he doesn’t know what he should be doing with that information. He knows that the ceiling is littered with popcorn-like paint, but he can’t actually see it at this point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone could go and tell him that there wasn’t even a ceiling, and Spencer wouldn’t even be able to prove them otherwise. It’s dark. Lawless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Spencer hates it. If the world was going to attack him, find him, punish him, he wishes that it would just already do it. Get it over with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, Spencer pulls off all of the blankets, and swings his legs over the side of the mattress. Nothing is going to protect him at this point, so it doesn’t really matter how many layers there are between him and the world. Either the world is going to find him, or it won’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Prying off one of the pairs of socks, Spencer pads over to the window, looking out at the street light. There’s not even a hint of tiredness in his body, which is both relieving and concerned all at the same time. He supposes that it’s not the first time that Spencer’s body hasn’t made sense to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of these feelings, all of these emotions, they rarely make sense to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he puts his head close to the window, he can see the stars when he looks up. They all get clouded by the puff of each breath though, and every few seconds, he has to wipe it off with his sleeve. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stars don’t twinkle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The billions of miles between him and the star bend the light around and around, until he’s barely seeing the true version of it. Earth’s atmosphere tries to hide the actual light from filtering in, only giving people a fraction of the star.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They appear to twinkle because humans can’t actually see them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer leaves the window, letting the curtains fall back over them. And before he can stop himself, he’s leaving the guest room, quiet feet going down the stairs. He has no intention to leave, not like before, but Spencer just needs to get out of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though it’s protecting him from the evil, it’s just another layer from the stars. He supposes it’s a delicate balance of protection and curiosity that keeps him sane. Scribbling a note down from the light of the microwave clock, Spencer tells whichever unassuming Morgan that he hasn’t left, but instead only went to the backyard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hopefully that will stop a mass panic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloony doesn’t wake when Spencer walks past him to grab his watch, and Spencer doesn’t make any move to do so. He knows that the old canine needs his sleep just as much as Spencer should.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The backyard looks different in the night. Astronomically different.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cicadas chirp around, nearly blocking the sounds of distant cars. How lovely, Spencer thinks, to live in a world when an insect could be louder than man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Settling down onto the grass, Spencer hooks his arms around his knees, before craning his neck to look at the stars. It’s been years since he’s done this. The last time he remembers looking at the stars, there was a dead body and a vial of Dilaudid cut with psychedelics in his pocket. These are the same stars that he saw then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thought makes Spencer’s gut curl into a dozen different knots. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he thought he was dead, dead for the first time, Spencer looked up to see the same exact stars that he watches now. As the Earth rotates they don’t live in the same position, but otherwise they haven’t changed a single bit. Even if they reached the end of their life, exploding in the silence of space, nobody would know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would take centuries for the light to reach Earth, and by then, Spencer will be gone as well. But until then, the stars haven’t left him. Even as his veins crawled with desire, and his head bounced with euphoria, the stars have always been there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No matter the evil in the world, the sky still remains.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks down at his wrist, using the faint remains of the street light to see the delicate hands. It’s now the morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And no evil was able to reach out its hands and grasp Spencer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What if this isn’t an outlier, but an event to set a new trend?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Balancing Hank on one hip with one hand, Savannah uses her free one to grab her son’s hand before he can toss his few remaining cheerios as projectiles. Cloony looks just as disappointed as Hank does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hankie, why do you still throw your food?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fun!” He happily replies next to her ear, before settling for sticking the rest of the cereal in his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking back at him, Savannah points out, “You’re getting big though. Big boys don’t throw their food. They eat it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ignoring half of her comment, Hank agrees, “I’m big now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which means that you’re not gonna throw your food anymore, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank shakes his head. “It’s fun!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trying again, Savannah questions, “Don’t you want to be big and strong like Daddy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Daddy doesn’t throw his food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank’s face falls for a split second, before he finds his own loophole, “Big and strong like Spence!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Savannah sends a begging look to Spencer, who’s been absentmindedly listening in on the conversation. Much to her relief, Spencer answers, “I hate to break it to you, Hank, but I don’t throw my food either. And I like carrots,” He adds for good measure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Hank seems to deflate at that, he still looks like the sun itself is shining on him. It’s pure happiness, something that Spencer only sees in children. Not the children that he works with, though. No, only the innocent ones, the ones that evil hasn’t reached out to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s shoulders lose tension from relief when he remembers that his mistake with Luke didn’t get Hank hurt. It feels like a weight’s been lifted off of his soul.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I have more cereal, mommy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Setting Hank back down into a chair, where he happily stands and grabs onto the side of the table, Savannah asks, “If I give you more cereal, are you going to throw it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hank just looks up to her with wide eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Savannah pats the top of his head with a fond sigh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, I swear. I’ll give you more cheerios, but you have to eat them, okay? Just like Daddy and Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a single harsh nod, Hank confirms, “Got it.” To his credit, he makes it a couple of bites before flicking pieces off of the table. Just in time for Derek walking down the stairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dropping her head in her hands, Savannah fondly sighs, “Deal with your child, please. I need sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking at the scene in front of him, Derek just laughs, before pulling Savannah into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “Go get some sleep, I’ll be fine out here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even after a few seconds from when Savannah’s left to go upstairs, Spencer’s eyes are still glued to the spot where they were. He barely notices it himself, until the older man brings it to attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatcha lookin’ at, Pretty Boy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scrunching his eyes, Spencer asks a question of his own, “Was it difficult to get used to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was what difficult?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, right. People can’t just read Spencer’s mind. That would make communication a million times easier if it were the case. Shaking his head, finally drawing his eyes away from the same spot, Spencer replies, “Not working at the BAU. Not having to think about,” Glancing at Hank, Spencer awkwardly continues, “You know. Stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Much to his relief, Hank doesn’t seem to notice any type of slip up. Perhaps he’s still got a little ways away before becoming the profiler that his dad is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a seat next to his son, Derek admits, “I still think about it all. All the things that I’ve seen, and all of the things that I could’ve seen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So how do you deal with it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek shrugs. “How do you deal with it now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking down at himself, Spencer scrunches his face. Finally, he looks up and admits, “Not well. I think most people would agree with me there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Derek explains, “I mean, before all of this. You were working the same amount as I was a couple of years ago. What kept you goin’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Each new case,” Spencer says. “I knew that I needed to focus on the present, so I pushed all of the past cases to the back of my mind. I’ve just been trying to hold off thinking about it all since Dallas, but I don’t know how well that’s working. So how do you do it? How have you handled not working for this long?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, Derek starts, “For one, therapy. And don’t give me that look,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not giving you a look!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From across the table, Hank giggles at his defensive tone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a second to look at his son, Derek gives a light shake of his head. “Therapy helps a lot. And I was able to keep my mind off of it, you know? Think about other things, instead of all of the people that I could’ve been helping.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did a hel- heck. I did a </span>
  <em>
    <span>heck </span>
  </em>
  <span>of a lot of renovations and remodeling the first few months that I left the BAU. And I mean, I also had a kid that I had to be taking care of. You don’t have much time to think when you’re workin’ on only a few hours of sleep per night. Isn’t that right, Hank?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not really understanding what his father’s getting at, Hank just nods, “Mmhm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, what?” Spencer frowns, “Houses and children? That’s what helped?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re takin’ me too literally, kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer opens his mouth, before closing it, repeating the cycle a few times. “I can’t help it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, I know. You just gotta find something that you love to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you and Emily conspiring? Is this just the talk about hobbies again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s sure as heck shaping to be.” Both of the men are quiet for a few moments, before Derek speaks up again, “It’s been basically a month since you were last working. You seem to be doin’ okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sending him a look that says it all, Spencer doesn’t verbally reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Okay’ in a relative term,” Derek corrects himself. “Given everything else that’s going on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer huffs, a half laugh half scoff, before burying his face in his coffee cup. “Both Emily and Delilah don’t want me going back to work soon, and it feels weird. Now that I’m not spending all of my time feeling anxious, I don’t really know what to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t make me repeat the ‘H’ word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The ‘H’ word?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hobby. I’m telling you, kid, you’ve never had a hobby in your life. They’re pretty dang great. Takes your mind off of everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Spencer counters, “And I told you, I have had hobbies. Reading and learning.” When Derek just gives him a pained smile, Spencer frowns. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Most of your reading was research, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Research for school, for the FBI, for cases. Tell me I’m wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer says, “You’re not wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So that’s the thing,” Derek motions with his hand, “You don’t need a purpose with your hobbies. There doesn’t need to be some great big solution for them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding in understanding, Spencer replies, “Like piano.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah- wait, where did that come from?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s when I was talking to Emily. She also said I should get a hobby.” More to himself, Spencer quietly adds, “Why does everyone think I need a hobby? Anyway, the conversation that I had with her reminded me of when Ethan played the piano.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ethan from New Orleans?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Giving Derek a look, Spencer points out, “You know you can just call him ‘Ethan,’ not ‘Ethan from New Orleans,’ right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just confirming.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But yes, that Ethan. Although I suppose piano wasn’t just a hobby for him, seeing as how he now sustains himself with it.” If Spencer could, he’d give himself a look. “I don’t know where I’m going with this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Laughing, Derek replies, “That’s okay, I think I do. So you think playin’ piano would be a good hobby?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so,” Spencer nods with a grin. “I don’t think I’m ready for a house nor a child.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek raises his eyebrows. “You sure? Because I’d let you hang with Hank for a few days. Then maybe I could walk across my kitchen without stepping on cereal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Warmth spreading through his chest, Spencer replies, “You know, I could teach him directional velocity. Then he’d get even better at throwing cheerios.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Holding up a finger, Derek mock threatens, “Don’t you dare, Pretty Boy! This child is scary accurate enough as it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s always room for improvements,” Spencer grins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a fake whisper, Derek leans down to his son, “Hey, Little Man, you wanna do Daddy a favor?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Throw a cheerio, right at Spencer. Can you do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Absolutely delighted with the approval for his favorite activity, Hank does just that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Really, Spencer shouldn’t be surprised that right after the cheerio is launched, it hits perfectly between his eyes.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I swear, when I write domesticity, I have to look away from the screen to blush. It's like second hand embarrassment or something, but with fluff. It feels weird, given that I'm the one writing it lmao</p>
<p>Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed, and have a wonderful day! :D<br/>(PS if you're into esports and want to watch some tournament games of mine that are being streamed in a few hours, dm me on tumblr!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Oh, So Easy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The changes in Spencer's life seem to pile up, and he's not sure what to do with that information. He also has a few riveting conversations.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heyo friends! I hope you're all doing well this Friday! I don't know how to tell you all this, so I'll just say it: Embers is actually coming to an end very soon o.o Even thinking about it makes me sad, jaja</p>
<p>This chapter is dedicated to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightTerror/pseuds/BrightTerror">BrightTerror,</a> who listened to me complain about viscosity for over an hour. You're the best!</p>
<p>There aren't any trigger warnings like other chapters, but if quicksand irks you or is a squick, I'd recommend treading carefully during the dream bit!</p>
<p>Enjoy! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Luke and Mari stare at each other, tension rising at the table in the Morgan’s kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, Mari lightly slaps the table, grin coming to her face. “There! You blinked. I saw it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t blink,” Luke replies, even though his voice gives it away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the side, Spencer asks the question that everyone else is thinking. “What does this have to do with giving a shovel talk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, c’mon,” Mari starts, “We all understand psychology here. It’s about intimidation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer scrunches his eyes, before murmuring, “I guess I don’t know much about shovel talks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few feet away, Savannah snorts. “Believe me, this is not a normal shovel talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Mari holds up her hands, “If it works, it works.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no idea what’s happening,” Luke adds in, looking more than a little confused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That means it’s working.” Comes Mari’s quick witted reply. Making eye contact with Luke again, she deadpans, “But in all seriousness, if you hurt Spencer, I will come for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Luke can say anything, Spencer drops his head into his hands, “Please stop,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said I was allowed to!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I regret it,” Spencer muses. “I retract my previous statement. Please don’t give Luke the shovel talk. At least not in front of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, Luke insists, “It’s okay. Besides, I’ve gotten it from everyone else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait- you have?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luke nods. “You can even ask Derek.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer whips around his head. “Morgan, did you give Luke a shovel talk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep,” He replies, as if it was the most obvious thing ever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Giving him a look, Spencer replies, “Because it’s weird?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek just shakes his head. “Nah. What’s weird was that I was one of the last people to do it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has everyone given Luke a shovel talk?” From the corner of his eye, Spencer can see Luke give a slow nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hank hasn’t,” Savannah points out. “But I’m sure we can arrange that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is terrible,” Spencer mumbles into his hands, “Why didn’t I know about this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a grin that can only mean one thing, Derek points out, “I mean, you were kind of the last person to even figure out that you were in a relationship.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been awhile since Spencer’s felt this embarrassed. “I’m gonna go hang out with Hank,” He declares, standing up from the table. “The one person who won’t judge me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re judging Luke, not you,” Mari laughs, even as Spencer doesn’t turn to reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting cross legged next to the boy, Spencer just picks up a few blocks, enjoying the texture on his hand. Hank looks at him for a few moments, before declaring, “You look funny,” Much to the other adults’ delight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hank’s on our side,” Derek says from the kitchen. “We raised him well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although with a smile, Spencer mumbles, “I don’t even know what to do with that information.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer sits on the grass in the backyard, head turned sideways in thought. He nearly jumps when a figure sits down next to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Luke starts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer smiles back, “Hi.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you doing okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer confirms, “I’m good. Just enjoying a bit of the quiet out here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want me to leave?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cool. I’ll stay then.” After Spencer gives him another smile, Luke asks, “What’re you thinking about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How did you know I was thinking about something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke grins, before answering, “You’re always thinking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>in deep thought.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer confesses, “I guess I don’t really know how to turn it off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what were you thinking about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Honestly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That it’s hot outside,” Spencer shrugs. “Not just from the sun. The air just feels… warm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Chuckling, Luke points out, “Well, it is mid afternoon. In June.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer nods, “I don’t know why it came as a surprise to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The date?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer answers, “The warmth.” When Luke doesn’t say anything, Spencer continues, “It feels different than before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks down at the grass, focusing on the little green blades. “You know about all of the layers, all of the clothes that I’ve worn.” Luke nods, coaxing him on, “But now it feels different. Uncomfortable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Luke asks, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t decided,” Spencer admits, looking up. “Right now it’s just ‘a thing.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Watching a pigeon fly over the fence, Luke muses, “Well. If it bothers you, then at least you’ll have a break from the heat coming up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s supposed to rain in a couple days. Won’t be as hot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding in understanding, Spencer replies, “Mango showers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unable to stop a laugh, Luke turns to face him. “Hold on- what’d you just call them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although he doesn’t make eye contact, Spencer turns his head toward Luke. “Mango showers. It’s a colloquial term for pre-monsoon rain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re really called ‘mango’ showers?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmhm,” Spencer nods with a smile. “They’re called that because of the season of mangoes in Asian countries. Mostly India. The rain before monsoons helps ripen seasonal fruits, the majority of which are mangoes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grinning, Luke asks, “Where’d you even learn all of this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Those specific facts? When I was eleven, and I was bored in the library.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The librarians must’ve loved you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sad smile appears on Spencer’s face. “I think they did. When I went to college they made me a ‘going away’ present.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was it books?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was books,” Spencer confirms. “I still have them. All of them are still in my bookshelf, nearly falling apart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke squints in concentration for a second, before asking, “Hey, aren’t there people that fix books? Physically, I mean. Not the words inside. I know what editors are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Book conservators. Although they usually have another job, because it’s not something that can sustain people anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a fond grin, Luke questions, “How do you just know all this stuff?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Spencer shrugs. “It all just sticks with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something tells me that you never had to cheat on tests to remember formulas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer opens his mouth to answer, but cuts himself off. “Wait, did you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a short laugh, Luke nods, “Yeah. In middle and highschool. I couldn’t keep track of any math formulas, so I wrote them down on my arm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you got away with it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep,” Luke nods. “I sat in the back of the class. Math was never my strong suit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s unfortunate. Math is fun.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke shakes his head. “No offense, but I’m gonna have to disagree with you there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As a country, we’re awful at teaching math. That’s probably one of the reasons why you didn’t like it,” Spencer points out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Luke concedes, “Yeah, I believe it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the conversation finds itself in a lull, Spencer takes it upon himself to start a new topic of conversation. He can handle that. They were talking about temperature earlier, which means that it shouldn’t be too strange to bring that up again. “As warm blooded creatures, humans are incredible at regulating temperatures.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delighted at not immediately being shut down, Spencer nods, “Even compared to all mammals, we’re one of the best. The hypothalamus is a gland in the brain, and it receives signals from across the body. And then from there we either shiver or sweat, to raise or lower our body temperature, respectively.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s pretty cool.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer continues, “When we’re cold and need to preserve body heat, blood vessels constrict near the skin so less heat escapes. The same is true for the opposite. When we’re too warm and need to get rid of it, the blood vessels expand near the skin.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke sends him a look. “For real?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep,” Spencer confirms. “It’s one of the many involuntary actions of our body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never knew that,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Involuntary actions are incredibly interesting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Luke stays looking at Spencer. After a moment, he asks, “Can I touch you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your hand,” Luke expands. “And you can totally say no.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a few seconds of deliberation, Spencer holds out his hand, palm up. “You can touch me.” Before Spencer even knows what’s happening, Luke’s clasped his hand into Spencer’s own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if to confirm, Spencer looks down at where their hands meet. “Yes,” He smiles back at Luke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even with Ethan, they never just sat together. Ethan was always playing piano, and Spencer was always studying. They enjoyed each other’s company, while doing something else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But there’s nothing else that Spencer or Luke could be doing right now. Rather than this being the secondary action, they’re just spending time together. There’s no sudden need to be doing something useful, and there’s no sense of annoyance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels like, at this very moment, the most productive thing that they could be doing is simply this. Sitting together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, Spencer speaks up. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been touched by someone who wasn’t evil.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke’s face contorts into an emotion that Spencer can’t quite place. “I’m glad- I’m honored that you trust me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not evil,” Spencer plainly states. “You put a bandaid on my thumb a couple of days ago, and nothing happened. You’re not evil.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a response, Luke just squeezes his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t know why, but he’s having a hard time stopping himself from rocking in Delilah’s office. The idea of being able to go back and forth and back and forth is so appealing to him- even more so than usual.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Delilah notices, she doesn’t say anything about it. “How has your anxiety been the past couple of days?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good,” Spencer nods, continuing the motion a few times because of how comforting it is. “It’s been good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think the medication is helping?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pauses, scrunching his nose before truthfully answering, “I’m not sure. It doesn’t feel like it’s been doing anything. But I have been feeling better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Delilah takes a breath, “Usually when SSRIs are working best, you can barely tell. It’s a gradual and subtle change.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Logically, I understand that,” Spencer says, “But part of me still feels like I should be able to tell that it’s working.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That makes sense. Have you been worried about feeling the effects?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No?” Spencer isn’t exactly sure how he should even be going about the question. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make sense, because it should be a positive effect. Why would I be worried about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nice smile, Delilah states, “It’s okay to feel worried, even when your logical brain is telling you something else. Living with an anxiety disorder, it’s more common than you think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer frowns, “That’s the thing, I know exactly how common it is. I’ve read papers upon papers of this exact feeling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But nothing is the same as experiencing, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer agrees, “Right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So going back to my original question, do you think your medication is helping you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s certainly not making anything worse,” Spencer answers. “It’s difficult to tell if the medication has been helping, or if I’ve just gotten lucky and had a good week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah raises her eyebrows, and looks up. “Your whole week has been good?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s really good news, Spencer. How do you feel about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although he can’t quite hide a face of distaste at the question, he answers, “I- good. I think? I’m not sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See if you can talk it out. Just say anything that comes to mind, not worrying about if it does or does not make sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Confidently nodding his head, Spencer responds, “It’s good. I like feeling less anxious. But at the same time it makes me more anxious. That doesn’t make sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But that’s okay,” Delilah quickly replies. “How doesn’t that make sense to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It just doesn’t. Why would I be feeling more anxious about not feeling anxious?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Writing a few things down, Delilah points out, “From what I understand, it’s a big change from the rest of your life. Change can be stressful, especially for an autistic person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After debating the thought for a few moments, Spencer eventually nods. “I guess I understand that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t sound like you do. Are you sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure,” Spencer confirms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a few seconds of silence as Delilah scribbles down more notes, before she sets the file and pen down. “It’s been over a month since you’ve worked. How are you feeling about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer takes a breath, doing his best to get his thoughts in order. “Also good. Better than before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? How so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pushing his lips to one side, Spencer gives a half hearted shrug. “It’s not as hard to handle it anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Handle…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not working.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Delilah hums, “Ah. Are you happy about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Spencer answers, before frowning at himself. “I think. Does that make me a bad person?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you think it would make you a bad person?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My job involves helping people. If I’m happy to not be doing it does that make me bad?” Would that even be enough for Spencer to consider himself evil?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah answers faster than Spencer expected. “You told me earlier that, even when injured, you’ve almost never taken a vacation from work. Do you remember that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So this is a new experience for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s common to not quite understand emotions in new events. But perhaps I can put this into perspective, for you?” When Spencer doesn’t reply, Delilah asks, “Is that okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, he nods. “Sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. Although maybe not to the degree that you do, my job is also to help people. Would you agree with that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Since I’ve started working, I’ve taken quite a few vacations, and days off.” Instantly, Spencer knows what she’s getting at. “A couple of years ago I took off a day to see my kid graduate from fifth grade, which is far less important than what you’re doing right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer just frowns. “I’m not doing anything though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re healing. That takes a lot of energy and brain power, just like a physical wound would,” Delilah points out. “I took time off of a Friday, rescheduling six appointments, so I could see my kid with a hand-made paper diploma. Am I still a good person from that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t have to think twice. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, Delilah asks, “Why am I still a good person? There were people in need that I put secondary to my own wants, but you didn’t hesitate to tell me that I’m a bad person. Why is that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- it’s not-” Spencer huffs, kneading his thumb against the pocket of his sweatshirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know that you know, Spencer. It’s okay to say it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t meet her eyes. “I know that people aren’t inherently bad for feeding their own wants. I know that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Delilah says, “I’m glad. But you don’t seem to understand that when it’s regarding yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think you can work on that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Spencer nods. “Sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Half sitting, half laying on the bed upstairs, Spencer tries to pull all of his attention to his book. Each page seems to take him nearly five seconds to read, and he doesn’t really know what to do with that information. It’s frustrating, to say the least.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everytime Spencer finally finds himself getting absorbed in the book, another random thought seems to pop up in his head, pushing him away. Maybe meditation would work better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When a single page takes him a full eight seconds to read through, and Spencer barely retains any of the information, he just sighs and closes it. It’s not like he’s going to get anything useful out of the book if he keeps reading like this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s underlying exhaustion behind his eyes, which doesn’t bother Spencer at its core, but the fact that he doesn’t know where it’s coming from? That’s something that’s pissing him off. He’s gotten sleep, he’s eaten, and he’s taken his medication.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though there’s absolutely no reason for him to be feeling this way, Spencer’s brain still aches for sleep. It’s not even the evening. Mid-afternoon at best.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe Hank and Cloony are onto something with all of their midday naps. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frustration leaking through all the cracks of his mind, Spencer hauls himself off the bed, determined to wake up. He’ll try a shower. Showers supposedly help to wake people up. Then again, that’s in the morning, when their brains are just waking for the first time in hours.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer supposes that it can’t hurt to try.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From the past few showers that he has taken, the cardboard cover for the mirror is stored under the sink, along with a roll of masking tape, ready to be used whenever. He still feels the yank of embarrassment, threatening to escape every time he covers the mirror, but it’s not as if he has any other choice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After Spencer turns off the lights in the bathroom, the bright June sun still shines through, illuminating all of the tile. Although it sets him on edge, there’s no more cardboard left in the bathroom, and there’s no way that Spencer’s going to find someone downstairs and ask for more. He can deal with it himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite what Spencer’s anxiety insists, it’s a largely uneventful shower. He still keeps his eyes straight forward, watching rivulets of water slide down the tile, pile up on the grout, collecting in beads before falling all of the way down. Looking down at the drain would involve seeing things he’d rather not, but Spencer can feel the water fall down between his toes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer knows that his shower lasts longer than his usual, but he tries to push that thought from his mind. Besides, he really needed to get clean.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Toweling off is still one of Spencer’s least favorite activities, and as per usual, he’s already half dressed while his skin hasn’t been dried. By the time he gets to his socks, Spencer slips on the first pair as fast as he can, giving a sigh of relief at the safety.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But as he moves to put the next pair on, he pauses, just like he did two days ago. He’s already gone to therapy and he’s not planning on doing anything else today, except stay in the Morgan household.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been proven, more than once, that nothing can get inside of the house. No evil, that is. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a problem if he decided to only wear one pair. He’s only going to be with familiar people, and it’s not like he just made a grave mistake that would lead evil to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe one mismatched pair is enough, just this once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After all, he can always put on another one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the lack of socks, or maybe in spite of the lack of socks, Spencer covers himself in blankets back in the guestroom, wondering if this is how the worst mistakes are made. Getting too comfortable with the world around him, when in reality Spencer should be acting more careful. Protecting himself even better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to think about that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, Spencer clicks it on, wincing at the brightness. His eyes still threaten to close and push him into an afternoon nap, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Hi</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a few seconds of regret, before Luke surprises him, texting back almost immediately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Hi</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>What’s up?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least Spencer’s spent enough time in his life communicating to know when people actually want a literal answer. It’s far less often than he originally imagined.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Actually, nothing</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m not sure why I texted you</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>L. Alvez → S. Reid</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Lol its all good</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>You know you can text me whenever right?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Yes</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Although it does make me feel a bit better having you explicitly state it</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>Oh cool</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I mean in that case i promise that you can text me whenever </em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Even if i cant respond to you right away</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>And you can also just tell me to shut up if im texting you when you dont want to talk</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It goes both ways you know?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Thank you</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>The same goes for me, as well</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Nice!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>So whats on your mind?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I still don’t know</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>And I still don’t know why I texted you</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>You dont ever need a reason</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Wanna just talk?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Yes</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Cool</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>So ive still been thinking about mango showers</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>And i still cant believe that theyre named that lmao</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It’s just because mangoes are incredibly abundant in South Asia, where there are the heaviest parts of the monsoon season occur</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>So does that mean all of our mangoes come from there?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>No</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Even though approximately 75 percent of mangoes come from that area, the majority of mangoes that are sold in grocery stores are farmed in the area where warmer climates exist in North and South America</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I still have no idea how you know this stuff</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It’s just stuck in my head</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Plus mangoes are an interesting fruit</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I grew up eating tons of mangoes</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I also grew up cutting my fingers trying to cut up mangoes</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It happened more often than id like to admit haha</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>We almost never had mangoes at home</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>They were particularly expensive, so id only get them when there was a sale</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>What about now?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Do you eat mangoes now?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Not really</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Because I didn’t grow up with them they’re not a main part of any meals that I eat</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>There are actually interesting studies about how eating certain foods in childhood changes the way that adults diet</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Youre going to have to tell me about that some time</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Also you dont have to eat a mango with a meal</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>You can just eat it</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Like an apple</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Did you know that there are approximately 7,500 varieties of apples in the world?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I did not</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Arent they also the most common fruit?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Or the most abundant?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Actually, tomatoes are the most abundant fruit</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Even though the majority of the population considers it a vegetable</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>It’s scientifically classified as a fruit, though</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Ok wait i have to ask this</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Ask what?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Is ketchup a smoothie</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning at his phone, Spencer looks up to the wall, as if that will give him the information he needs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I might have to get back to you on that</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Avez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Lmao</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Thank you for talking with me</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Yeah of course!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I think I’m going to get off my phone now, though</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I’ve been uncharacteristically tired</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Everything okay?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Yes</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I’m just tired, and I don’t know why</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Hm</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Well you should get some sleep</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>At four in the afternoon?</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I mean if your brain is telling you to</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>I wouldnt see why not</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>S. Reid → L. Alvez</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>My brain is not known for making the best decisions</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>L. Alvez → S. Reid</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Dont focus on that then</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Just sorta</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Rest your eyes</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Think about a tomato smoothie</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help but give a laugh at his phone, before putting it back on the nightstand. Maybe Luke is right. Maybe all he has to do is just focus on something else</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing his eyes, Spencer figures that it’s just his luck all he can seem to think about are the classifications of fruit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s dreams are riddled with nightmares and evil grins, but he can’t make out anything definitive. Every time he seems to make progress with the world, it fizzles out of focus once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wind turns into Rain at the same time as the Mexico sand turns into mud. Footprints seem to fade in and out, and Spencer can’t even tell if they’re his own. Despite the fact that he’s memorized hundreds of rubber soles and track patterns, nothing seems to make sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It all feels wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t quite explain it. But wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inherently wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mud turns into quicksand, pulling Spencer down, down, until his chest, where he won’t ever sink lower than because of the buoyancy of his body. Spencer knows this, he’s done the math, knows how hyperoxygenation will help him float to the top, yet it doesn’t seem to help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s enough air in his lungs that he shouldn’t be able to sink further than his chest, but his dream doesn’t seem to follow the same rules of the waking Earth. Slowly, with every exhale, Spencer seems to fall a few more inches.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can feel his chest tightening with every fall, but he still can’t do anything about it. His legs are trapped in the vice of the sand, and he can’t even pull his arms away from the sides of his torso. After a quick attempt to test his hypothesis, Spencer can’t even wiggle his toes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he couldn’t feel the sand tighten around his body, he’d say that he was paralyzed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t know if his head ever makes it under the sand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he wakes, he’s sure that he hasn’t given his brain any rest. Spencer pushes the blankets off his fragile body, treading down the stairs with heavy steps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the fact that he hopes it isn’t obvious, based on Derek’s raised eyebrows, he knows Derek heard his nightmare. Spencer also knows that he’s about to say something about it, and he’d really rather not explain his strange winded nightmares to someone else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream analysis isn’t fun when he’s one of the involved parties.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to go to Luke’s,” Spencer declares, before he can regret it. “I don’t need a ride. I’m taking the subway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek looks like he wants to say something about it, but, to his credit, he just nods. “Okay. You sure you don’t want a ride?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer spends the time on the train reviewing the classifications of smoothies, doing his best to pretend like he’s not showing up unannounced to Luke’s house. Unannounced to his boyfriend’s house, if they could even be classified as that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still doesn’t know where they stand on the line of relationships.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just as he expected, Luke looks surprised when he opens the door. “Hey. Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After taking a moment to find all of the right words, Spencer settles on, “I didn’t want to stay in their house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coaxing Spencer inside, Luke questions, “Did something happen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. Nothing happened. I don’t- I don’t know why I’m like this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Luke nods. “Well, you’re here now. And you can stay here. Does Derek know you went out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a curt nod, Spencer leans down to pet Roxy, scratching behind her ears. Both of them seem to enjoy it the same amount.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Awkwardly standing to the side, Luke lets a few minutes pass before asking again, “Are you sure nothing happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure. How are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although still not convinced of Spencer’s previous statement, Luke humors him, “I’m good. Roxy and I have just been having a bit of a lazy day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer interjects, “Smoothies are classified as a raw fruit, vegetable, or both, pureed using a blender. They often have a liquid base, and include dairy products. Modern ketchup is made of tomatoes, blended until smooth. Although there isn’t a liquid base, tomatoes do have a lot of liquid inside of them. There aren’t any dairy products in ketchup, but that isn’t a requirement for smoothies, technically. In both ketchup and smoothies, ginger can be used, but otherwise that’s the only shared ingredient.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t know that there were any specific classifications for smoothies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are,” Spencer answers. “They’re closer to milkshakes than ketchup.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grinning, Luke questions, “What if you had a tomato milkshake?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t think of that,” Spencer admits. “That might change things. Although typically the thick texture is from pulp, and tomatoes have a more liquid inside.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke pauses for a second, biting his lip, before saying, “So if I were to have a tomato milkshake, it would be like a smoothie, but less thick?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Smoothies are less thick than milkshakes, so in theory if it was specifically categorized as a milkshake, the viscosity would be between an average milkshake and an average smoothie,” Comes the quick answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>the average viscosity of a smoothie?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Depends what the temperature of the smoothie is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh,” Luke thinks for a moment, before asking, “Room temperature?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Room temperature in the scientific or English communities? They refer to different temperatures.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If possible, Luke looks even more puzzled. “Scientific?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Spencer reports, “That’s about thirty degrees celsius. So,” Squinting, Spencer does a few quick calculations, “The viscosity of a smoothie in a room temperature area would be approximately 5844.5 centipoise, or 5.8445 pascal seconds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Spencer and Roxy don’t see anything wrong with the statement, Luke’s in near awe. “Did you just… know that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was able to do the calculations, based on the ingredients in smoothies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn. That’s really impressive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even after thirty five years, Spencer still hasn’t mastered the art of accepting praise. He settles for a, “Thanks,” Before ducking his head, focusing on Roxy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still in shock, Luke mumbles, “I can barely do my times tables in my head. Especially the sevens.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with the sevens?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Luke shakes his head. “I just never caught onto them, I guess. My sister had the same problem with the nines times tables. We weren’t really a math type of family.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pausing for a moment, Spencer points out, “At least you don’t have to know your times tables for profiling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“True,” He grins. “And I’m grateful for that every day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer smiles back, before finally lifting his hand from Roxy. She isn’t very pleased, and immediately trots the few feet over to Luke to get her fix. Not knowing how to exactly get into a conversation, Spencer announces, “I had a nightmare.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Despite them being nightmares,” Spencer starts, “They usually make sense. The dreams, that is. After hard cases, they would be about that. Lately they’ve been about Mexico.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding in sympathy, Luke muses, “I get that. It’s understandable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But the nightmare I just had didn’t make any sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened?” Wincing, Luke quickly adds, “If you want to tell me. You don’t have to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer replies, “It had nothing to do with any of our cases. I think I was in Mexico, but I couldn’t tell you why I knew that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know what you mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer hums, before continuing, “And then I fell in quicksand. It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing like that has ever happened to me. I’ve never even </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen </span>
  </em>
  <span>quicksand in my entire life. Which is normal, given where we live.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dreams don’t always make sense. I mean, I’ve had tons of nightmares that didn’t have to do with anything. But, you know, they were still nightmares,” Luke says, reaching down for Roxy when she rubs herself against his leg.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s weird,” Spencer swallows. “I’m used to them making sense. I’m used to the world making sense. It’s… not a good feeling when it doesn’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luke breathes. “It really isn’t. But you just gotta focus on the parts that you can understand, you know?” After Spencer nods, Luke asks, “Do you want to try and get some more rest? You still seem kinda tired. And I mean that in the nicest possible way,” He adds with a nervous laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither confirming nor denying, Spencer answers, “I don’t want to go back to the Morgan house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to. You can rest here, if you’d like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer gives Luke a look. “I don’t want to displace you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly shaking his head, Luke soothes, “You’re not. I’m offering it. I wouldn’t if I wasn’t comfortable with it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Positive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Completely confirming, Spencer questions, “You’d let me sleep on your couch?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If that’s where you want to sleep, yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke takes a step closer. “Spencer. I’m one hundred percent sure. I promise I’d tell you if I wasn’t comfortable with you here. Or if I wanted you to leave. Which, for the record, I don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lost for words for a few seconds, Spencer eventually looks up, meeting his eyes for about a second, before it puts him on edge. Eye contact has never been his forte. “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luke nods, “Of course,” Before turning down to Roxy. “Why don’t you keep him company, Rox?” All too happy to oblige, Roxy curls herself around the base of Spencer’s legs as he lays down. “She’s good with nightmares.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer frowns at the statement, but he doesn’t know how to bring it up. As his eyes slip close, Spencer figures that he’ll ask about it when he’s more rested.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After all, it’s not like he’ll be able to forget it. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes I calculated the actual fucking viscosity of smoothies in 30C and yes it was painful. Other than my questionable knowledge about viscosity stored in my brain, the sources I used are <a href="https://www.thinkymixer.com/en-us/library/topic/about-viscosity-difference-in-viscosity-seen-with-your-own-eyes/">here</a> and <a href="https://www.scielo.br/pdf/cta/v37n2/0101-2061-cta-1678-457X16616.pdf">here!</a> It was painful :)</p>
<p>Anyway, now that this chapter is up, I think I'm going to focus on my next SS fic, which is going to be a bit of a longer one, so it might be a few days 'til I see you all again! I hope you all have a wonderful day and weekend, spend some time thinking about tomato milkshakes, and I love you all!! &lt;33</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. It's All Just Begun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Some things change. And some things haven't changed at all.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ahhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHSDLKFJSDJFKLJKLF HI<br/>So this is weird. The last chapter. o.O I don't know how to deal with this, and I'm the author so???? I dunno. It all feels super weird. Also I'm very sorry for the nearly two weeks of no updates! I'll explain why in this author's note if you're curious, but totally feel free to just jump to the chapter! :D (there aren't any trigger warnings for this one other than a reference to Gary Michaels.)</p>
<p>Mnmmnnmkay so again, I'm so sorry for this taking almost two weeks, especially because this was the last chapter and all that. At first I didn't want to write because this story is my child and I didn't want it to end. Denial, as they say. And then about a week ago I started having problems with a person who had stalked me for a few years. I really really thought I was done dealing with them, and so when they came back that really scared me, and made me super stressed and anxious. ...and then that led to a relapse. Which ah. Isn't fun. And as much as this story is my child, it's full of very heavy topics, and I just wasn't able to write this ending in that mindset. Long story short, denial and bad timing was the reason why this took so long to post, and I apologize!</p>
<p>Thank you for sticking with me through this entire journey, and please enjoy this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Spencer’s middle finger keeps getting caught on the black keys. Every time that happens, he pulls his hands back so they’re not as far up the keys, but they still slowly creep up again and again. And as he sinks back down, his nail makes a nice tapping sound against the plastic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Music is just science. Sound waves mixing together in a certain way, avoiding dissonance, it’s all science. Which is why learning to play piano should be easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, here,” Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he leans over to see Luke’s phone with a YouTube video pulled up. “Piano for beginners. Allegedly,” Luke adds, thinking of the last video ‘for beginners’ that they found that was definitely not for beginners.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unless beginners already knew all of the notes of the piano and chord progressions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Come to think of it, they’re probably lower than beginners.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Awkwardly following the video, pausing about every five seconds because it goes too fast, Spencer and Luke do their best to learn. It feels awkward using all five fingers, when pecking at the keys seems to always work out better for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After about fifteen minutes, Luke pulls his hands off the keys. “Is it weird that I’m sweating right now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help but bark out in laughter. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is making me all stressed!” Luke grins back. “This is like, the most tension I’ve felt since Rangers, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even more than our cases?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely,” He nods. “At least with cases I understand what’s happening. I have no idea what I’m even trying to do here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Spencer replies, “I think you’re sounding pretty good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks. I mean, you too.” Blinking, Luke adds, “You sound better than me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks.” The two of them spend the next few seconds looking at each other, before Spencer pulls away, pressing down on one of the keys to avoid any extra awkwardness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t work very well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After the video is over, both of them decide that they need to take a break from learning piano. He wasn’t expecting it to be this difficult. Even though Spencer already had an appreciation for piano players, courtesy of Ethan, it’s increased ten fold now. He has no idea how Ethan was able to play that well when they were that young.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” Luke starts, halfway sitting back on the bed in Spencer’s apartment. “I probably should’ve asked this earlier, but uh, how are you doing? How are you feeling?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At this moment? Or in general?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Evidently not prepared for the counter question, Luke takes a few seconds before answering, “I’m not sure. Either? Both? Whatever you want to answer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m doing well.” And it’s the truth. It certainly feels weird to say it, though. The last time he felt like he was actually doing well was the time that he and Maeve were the closest. Sunday calls every week, a break from the horrific world around him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? That’s great, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is,” Spencer confirms. “It’s a welcome surprise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s surprising?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as Spencer hears the concern in Luke’s voice, he wishes that he didn’t add anything. He doesn’t want Luke to worry. He’s already spent too much time worrying about Spencer as it stands right now. “I guess? I don’t really know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Luke asks, “Were you not expecting to be feeling okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Spencer honestly answers with a shrug, moving to pick at his fingers. “I don’t know what I was expecting. Especially after Dallas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That makes sense. Dallas was pretty intense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry about that, by the way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now it’s Luke’s turn to be surprised. “Wait, why? You know you don’t have to apologize for that, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Logically? Yes. But I still want to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Luke slowly nods. “I mean, I don’t hold any of that against you, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know it stressed you out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Luke states, “It doesn’t- that doesn’t matter. You need to worry about what happened to you. Not me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I did. I worried about me for the past month. Over a month.” Switching to rub his fingers between the hem of his sweatshirt, Spencer continues, “But I feel bad about you having to witness it. From what I remember, I know that it was stressful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m used to stress. Army ranger, remember?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer smiles, “And piano player. The two most stressful things a person can experience.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Luke chuckles. “You’re right about that one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer isn’t exactly sure how to respond, so he just puts his hands back on the keyboard. Even though he doesn’t know much, it still brings him tranquility to just push down on the keys. There’s something that Spencer can’t quite place that just makes the entire situation so satisfying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke ends up just watching and listening to Spencer, not trusting his own fingers to be able to continue to make music. His hands almost don’t feel like his own, and Spencer feels the same way. He’s always enjoyed learning new skills.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Having the feeling of something new is rare for Spencer, especially now that he’s older, but it’s still something that he craves. Maybe even more so now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whole, whole, half, whole, whole, whole, half,” Spencer declares, playing the scale in order of the steps. “That pattern is true for every scale.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The steps between notes. To play a major scale, it will always go whole step, whole step, half step, whole step, whole step, whole step, half step.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luke grins at him. “That’s basically a tongue twister. What’s the science behind it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At different frequencies, the sound waves oscillate differently. That pattern of whole steps and half steps just happen to sound good to our brains. It fits a perfect pattern.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh. Who do you think first realized that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pausing, Spencer eventually settles for a shrug. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it was just one person, though. There was definitely the first person to realize the science behind it, but everyone’s brain shares the same love of patterns from sound. It’s the same reason why certain chords sound good, and others don’t sound like anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Luke continues, “And that doesn’t depend on the person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really. Everyone has their own preferences, but that doesn’t change certain patterns in sound waves. When the peaks and valleys meet at one point, it makes a sound that our brains like. That’s all music is, really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s weird to think about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno,” Luke admits. “It’s just weird to break down music into a science.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly covering his tracks, Luke insists, “No, wait, not like that! I’ve just never even thought about it that way. My family all loved music, but we never saw it in a science-y way. We weren’t exactly a science heavy family.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer looks up, eyes peering a few inches away from Luke’s own. “That’s interesting. It’s almost the opposite for me. I made sense of everything in my childhood through science. That’s how the world made sense to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, that’s kinda cool,” Luke points out. “Both of us saw the world in different ways.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” After a nod, Spencer muses, “I wonder what I would’ve been like if I didn’t ever  get into science, or anything like that. I don’t think I would’ve liked it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Luke agrees, “Yeah. Science is sorta your thing. I can’t imagine you without all of your facts and math and stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My dad used to hate it,” Spencer says, not exactly sure where that came from. “It used to make him mad when I’d use statistics in everyday language.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who the hell gets mad at something like that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shrug, Spencer admits, “I don’t know. He was stressed all the time, though. Having to take care of me and my mom. He just… wasn’t happy with how I talked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Spencer.” It catches Spencer off guard, not just from the words, but the fact that he knows Luke is heartbreakingly genuine about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay. After he left I got to talk however I wanted. My mom never got annoyed at me. She liked the way I talked. She understood how different I was.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Spencer looks down at his fingers, still tangling their way through the bottom of his sweatshirt. “Yeah, she um, she was never bothered by me. On her lucid days, at least.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling sadly, Luke replies, “I’m glad that you had a parent that cared.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter how familiar Spencer is with therapy appointments, there always seems to be a lull in the conversation. Spencer’s used to not quite understanding communication, but therapy is a whole new thing to tackle. It’s different than normal, everyday conversations.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s almost forty, but there’s still so much to learn when it comes to talking with peers. Even learning how to interview unsubs and victims hasn’t helped him much. Not to a degree that would matter, anyhow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so Spencer does the next best thing. He just opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to mind. “How do you know that you’ve healed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah doesn’t even bat an eye. “I’m sure you’re very familiar with the phrase, ‘healing isn’t linear,’ right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer confirms, “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s an important part of healing. Knowing that one day you’re not going to be suddenly better. It doesn’t happen with broken bones, it doesn’t happen with pneumonia, and it doesn’t happen with psychological illnesses either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer blinks. “I know. Logically, I know. But I thought that I’d be able to feel a difference.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah sets her notes on the desk beside her, and gives a smile to Spencer. “You’re not alone in that regard. Lots of people expect to go to therapy and then suddenly feel better, even after only a couple of appointments. But unfortunately, that’s just not how it happens.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So how do I know that I’m getting better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s subtle. Lots of small differences, and chances are, you won’t even realize it until after the fact. You told me, not that long ago, that humans aren’t good at noticing slowly changing details, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And that’s how it works. Things slowly change, and we don’t realize it. Today doesn’t feel any different from yesterday, did it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Spencer isn’t quite following her train of thought, he still nods. “I guess it doesn’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But today feels different than Dallas, right?” After Spencer nods, Delilah gives one of her own. “It’s like that. Healing doesn’t just happen. There’s no miracle cure for anything, physiological or psychological. Instead, it takes time. Lots, and lots, and lots of frustrating time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few seconds pass, before Spencer admits, “I wish I could tell that there was a difference. I know how childish that sounds, but it’s true.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think it’s childish at all. You’re making progress, and it’s always nice to see progress being made. That being said, you are noticing that there’s a difference. It’s not going to be on the scale of a day, or even a week. See, that’s something that I can promise,” She adds with a smile. “Feelings are confusing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer agrees, “They are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But there’s also physical evidence that you’re making progress.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How? Heat exhaustion doesn’t have any lasting symptoms. With that idea you could say I made progress hours after I passed out in Dallas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Delilah shakes her head. “Not physical like that. Spencer, how many layers are you wearing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taken aback by the question, Spencer pauses for a few moments before answering. “Two.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, Delilah motions with her hands. “Well, there you go. Do you remember how many layers you wore the first time I saw you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, something Spencer can confidently reply to. “Three. Four counting the suit jacket.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a huge difference between three and two layers, Spencer, even if you don’t realize it. Even if nobody else realizes it. Because that right there? That’s evidence of you healing.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t exactly know how to respond, nor how he should even be continuing this conversation. “It doesn’t feel like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want to tell me why not?” Delilah asks, without any malice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know how to explain it. I feel the same. I doesn’t feel like I’ve changed at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, Spencer, I can confidently tell you that you’ve changed a lot. You’ve spent a long time working with yourself to heal. And even if you can’t see a difference, remember that </span>
  <em>
    <span>it is</span>
  </em>
  <span> there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer stares at his socks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stare back. As if they had beady little eyes, just like the eyes of a squid, they seem to stare into Spencer’s soul. In a different universe, Spencer swears that they could burrow into his heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And they’re just socks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Socks that were supposed to protect him from the world, save him from the evil all around him. They didn’t do any of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was all Spencer’s overactive imagination.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A child’s coping mechanism.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But a coping mechanism nonetheless. Only it probably isn’t ideal that it followed him into adulthood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s socks stare back, and he only puts on one pair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Charles can’t get to him here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The track marks on his arms have since faded, but Spencer still can’t bring himself to wear short sleeves. He thinks that maybe, with time, he’ll be able to cope with a single long sleeved shirt. That’s not the case right now, though.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shirt and a jacket. That’s normal. That’s definitely in normal range. Assuming that nobody mentions the fact that it’s June.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though it’s been decades, Spencer still buys his pants a size larger. He pulls his belt a notch tighter to counter that, and it works for him. The hem of his pants run down past his ankles, and Spencer’s happy with that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer tosses the extra pairs of socks underneath the bed. Out of sight, out of mind, right?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He then pulls out Mari’s pen and a piece of paper, and begins writing. For the first time in what feels like months, the words flow out of Spencer like they were meant to put themselves on a page.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi Mom,</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s Spencer. I hope that you’re doing well. I know that you’ve had bad days lately, but I want you to know that I’m always thinking of you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know if you remember, but a while back I told you that I was proud to be your son, and I’ve been thinking about that lately. Mostly for the reason that it hasn’t changed. I wouldn’t be the same without you, for better or for worse. It’s because of you that I am the way I am.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And I love you for that.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve always told me that a mother knows, and I’ve never had any evidence to disagree with you. Which is why I feel guilty for not being completely honest with you the past couple of weeks.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve been having a difficult time getting all of my words out, and I didn’t want you to worry about that, so I stopped sending letters to you. I feel really bad about it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And I know that you’ve also been struggling to send letters, but I understand that. I just don’t want us to drift apart. We’ve been able to stick together for so long, and I don’t want that to end now.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a pile of letters on the floor, next to my bed, all addressed to you, but that’s all they’ve been doing: sitting on the floor.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It doesn’t feel right for me to keep all of this from you, because I know that you’d care, and I know that you’d want to know what was happening.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But I can assure you here, that I’m doing well. Much, much better than I was before. So you don’t have to worry about me. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve never been normal, you know that, but for the first time in my life, I think I’ve found a new standard for myself. In a good way, that is.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That being said, I don’t completely understand what to make of myself anymore. It almost feels like I'm starting something new. I used to always be moving, always itching to learn new things, and I’d get stressed out when I wasn’t.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not to say that I don’t want to learn anymore, don’t get me wrong. But I think I finally understand all of the stories that you used to read to me. All of your poetry about taking a step back, I think I get it now.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You know that I’ve always been privy to prose, but that might change.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve also begun to learn piano. I remember the old cassette tapes full of piano music that you used to listen to, before the cassette player died. Even though I can still hear the music perfectly in my head, I don’t think I can translate that into my own fingers.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s more fun than I thought. Learning a new skill. It’s extremely difficult, but I’m enjoying that. More than I thought I would, actually.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve done plenty of difficult things in my life, but I think that this is different. I know that it’s different. It feels different, and I’m not really sure why. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>In my other letters, you’ll hear about Luke. We’re dating. Which feels weird to say, but it is true. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to truthfully say something like that.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Luke’s been learning piano with me. He’s doing really well, even if he doesn’t think so. I wish that I could show him how I see him through my eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The word just feels like a whole new place, mom, and I have no idea what to do with it. But part of that is the excitement for it. I don’t have a plan, but for once, I think that it’s okay.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a strange but exciting feeling, mom.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And I only wish that you were here with me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Love, Spencer</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer walks downstairs, Hank is the first one to greet him. “Spencer!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, Hank,” He smiles, taking a bit of a detour to the kitchen so he can see what new block masterpiece Hank is building today. Similar to the last time, Spencer’s half sure that Hank’s going to be an engineer when he grows up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s up, Pretty Boy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need some stamps.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Multiple?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek pauses, before taking it all in stride and shrugging. “How many?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enough to send all of these,” Spencer answers, holding up the entire pile of letters by his bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He supposes that it’s a good thing that he never bought a trashcan to put them in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s fingers feel weird between his thumbs. He doesn’t think that it’s a product of hypersensitivity, but he’s not certain. Spencer’s half convinced that he’s just really focused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Really, really focused on the pads of his fingers. They feel weird.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only a few minutes later when Spencer realizes that all he’s doing is a weird stim with his fingers. He doesn’t bother to stop it, there’s no point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is, however, a little weird that he begins his dream by stimming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now that he thinks about it, Spencer almost never stims in his dreams. Maybe that’s something that he could focus on at some point. Silently, he wonders if that’s the case for other autistics.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, Spencer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning around, he can’t help but flinch. Why is she always here? “Why are you here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you don’t like me, then get rid of me,” Lindsey counters. “It’s your dream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’re just here to terrorize me again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, silly. That’s your job. After all, that’s all I am. A part of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Spencer replies, “Just because my brain created you while I’m in REM doesn’t mean that you’re a part of me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It literally does.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer does not miss her arguing. Not that he misses any part of Lindsey, but the arguing gets old fast. “You’re nothing but a bunch of synapses firing around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lindsey just grins at him. “At least I’m here to keep you company, right? Just you and me, Spencer? No medicated old woman to bother us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not here,” Spencer takes a step back, as much as he hates himself for doing so. “You’re a dream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s never stopped me before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But it’s true. You’re comprised of electrical impulses. In the blink of an eye you could be gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So then get rid of me, Spencer. If you really don’t want me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Holding in a shudder, he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what you tell me, because you’re not here. You’re not real.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lindsey shakes her head, a cruel smile appearing on her face. Then, tapping her index finger to her temple, she says, “But up here? You’re no more real than I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s my brain that’s creating you. I’m actually here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No you’re not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t help but sigh. “What are you trying to get at?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Again, it’s your dream. What are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying to get at? Think, Spencer. You know what it is. And besides,” She giggles, “Even if you didn’t, there’s only a few things that I could be here for. We can go down the list. One: daddy issues.” Wincing, Lindsey adds, “Probably not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s the point of this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Two: abandonment issues. Oh, you know what? That one might be closer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closing his eyes for a split second, Spencer tries, “Just… stop. Stop.” When he opens his eyes, she does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In fact, Lindsey isn’t even there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s just Spencer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer, in the park where he used to play chess with a child molester. Spencer, in the park where he met Riley.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But right now, it’s just him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even the sky is empty, devoid of clouds.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s nice. Peaceful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sinking down to the ground like it’s the Morgan’s backyard, Spencer presses his palm against the dirt and grass underneath it. It’s quiet. And despite the fact that it’s only a dream, Spencer can feel each individual blade, morning dew still living on the edges of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The somberness turns into anxiety, and Spencer wants to laugh at himself. It’s the most natural thing to happen to Spencer. His brain turning something that calms him down into something that does the opposite.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the part of his brain that he’s been living with since he was three years old.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least, he thinks so. He can only confirm from the time that he has memories from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>New and old.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brain keeps pulling the same tricks. Part of Spencer wonders why it took him decades to even realize that it was happening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer wakes, it’s already past the early morning. The sun is doing its damndest to shine through dark curtains, and for once, Spencer doesn’t mind that much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still has his blankets to protect him, along with his pair of socks, so even if that illuminated him to the evil, he has protection. Protection that’s a coping mechanism, sure, but protection nonetheless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he can’t spend too much time thinking about that. He has to call someone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And see a cat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not necessarily, but probably in that order.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now that he’s been keeping his phone in the upstairs room, Spencer doesn’t even bother getting out of bed before scrolling through his contacts. Three and a half rings go by until he gets an answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spence, I love you, but I am not a morning person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frowning, Spencer points out, “It’s already nine o’ clock.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear Emily give a dramatic groan from the other end of the phone. “Exactly. Too early. No cases means I sleep in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you have work?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s Sunday.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a quiet second, before Emily asks, “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Spencer shakes his head, even though the recipient can’t see it. “I’m okay. But I want to talk. Not over the phone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hate to break it to you, but that’s kinda what we’re doing right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Huffing, Spencer replies, “I mean- I know that’s what we’re doing right now. I meant that I still want to talk with you. In person. Face to face. After we’re done talking on the phone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With an amused snort, Emily replies, “Relax, Spence, I know what you mean. I need to get up anyway. If I stay in bed any longer Sergio’s going to kill me and eat my organs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As a domestic house cat?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He gets angry when he’s hungry,” She cryptically replies. “Seriously though, when do you want to talk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer frowns to himself. He didn’t think this far ahead. “Er, in a few hours? If that’s okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that works. You wanna come down to my apartment or what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. I can do that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great,” Emily replies, before Spencer hears Sergio meow in the distance. “Okay, listen, I gotta go. This cat is actually going to kill me if I don’t feed him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After working with Emily long enough, Spencer’s learned when she’s exaggerating, and he knows that this is one of those times. She enunciates her words more dramatically whenever she’s using sarcasm. “Bye, Emily.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bye, Spence.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even after the call has ended, Spencer keeps the phone in his hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He might’ve just made a massive mistake. And even if he hasn’t, he probably should’ve thought about it more. Unless thinking in a dream counts as thinking through it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s got to work for at least something, right?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides, it doesn’t feel like a huge, sudden decision. Not like the times where he dares to talk back, instantly regretting it, and not like the time he stood in front of Owen’s rifle. Despite the fact that it feels like an impulsive decision, something inside tells him that it’s not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer can’t pinpoint what it is, but he knows that it’s there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer walks down to the kitchen, he makes a face at Hank’s bowl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tracking his eyes, Derek just sighs. “I dunno, man. Don’t ask me. He absolutely loves carrots again. Out of the blue.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning to Hank, Spencer questions, “I thought you didn’t like carrots?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope!” He happily replies. “They’re yummy!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derek sends a long suffering look to Spencer. “I don’t know what changed. At least he doesn’t throw the carrots.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unable to contain a grin, Spencer replies, “Give him some time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, God. Little Man, do not use carrots as projectiles. They might actually hurt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Big bad FBI man getting hurt by baby carrots? Fatherhood really has changed you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You-” Derek shakes his head. “Listen, you can’t judge until you get smacked in the face with projectiles every morning. And I mean every morning. There’s no reprieve for me anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer just smiles as a response. The teasing is a familiar pattern.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels like home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The subway system, on the other hand, no matter how recognizable it is, doesn’t feel like that. The idea of crowding around people, all holding onto the same bacteria ridden poles and seats with their own bacteria ridden fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily, it seems to go quickly. People hop on and off, and even though Spencer knows that some of them must be evil, just from statistics, nobody bothers him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Spencer arrives at Emily’s apartment, Sergio does the same metaphorical song and dance as he usually does, slinking around his legs and making chirping noises.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After being evidently satisfied with Spencer, he then looks up for pets. And, as always, Spencer’s never been one to deny pets. Even after Spencer and Emily exchange small talk and greetings, Sergio still stays by Spencer’s ankles, rubbing up against them every few minutes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking at him, Emily blankly states, “He’s an attention whore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprised by her bluntness, Spencer smiles up at her, barely containing a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He is! He always acts like I don’t give him any attention. As if I don’t spend every second at home brushing him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s smart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snorting, Emily replies, “Okay, now that? I’m gonna have to say no to that one. He’s the absolute stupidest cat I have ever met.” Looking down at him, she confirms, “Isn’t that right, Sergio? You’re just a baby idiot, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t seem bothered by the words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Giving a long suffering shake of her head, Emily turns back to Spencer. “So what’d you want to talk about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been a month since I’ve worked. Over a month, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this about wanting to come back?” She asks with a frown.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer pauses. He doesn’t really know if he’s even thought enough about this. Decision making, especially large ones like this, should be taken seriously, he knows that. But Spencer also knows that there’s just something in him telling him that this is the right choice. “Not exactly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then what’s up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding his head in time with his words, Spencer replies, “I want to take more time off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although Emily’s surprised, she hides it rather well. Comes with the job, Spencer supposes. “Okay. Is everything okay? With you, I mean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For my entire life, I’ve always been studying and working. For the majority of it, specifically for the BAU. Even as a teenager. I don’t even…” Spencer trails off, thinking of the right words, wishing that they would go to the front of his head. “I wanted to be a cowboy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I was little. Really little. Before I even understood my mom’s sickness, and my dad’s lethargy. That’s what I wanted to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a nod, Emily coaxes him to continue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’ve done much in my life for me. It wasn’t until you, and Morgan, mentioned hobbies a week ago that I realized I didn’t have any.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think you had no hobbies, Spencer,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing, he continues, “Any of my hobbies had to do with work. There is, was, nothing that I did for myself. I’m almost forty.” Confident, Spencer finishes, “I want to do something for myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can feel his heart rate drum up and up as the milliseconds go by and Emily still hasn’t responded. But then she smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just. Smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer doesn’t really know what to do with this information. He wracks his mind for the right answer in this particular social situation, but nothing is coming up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, Spence. You know that, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” He nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I’m really proud of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For being you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” It feels like a lifetime ago when they nearly had the same conversation. Spencer hasn’t changed since then. “I don’t know how to be anyone else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Remembering the old talk for herself, Emily gives a quiet grin. “Take as much time as you need, Spence.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing, Spencer admits, “I- I don’t know how long that’ll be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no idea how long it’ll be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Spence, I know. I get it. I promise I understand. But you need this.” Shaking her head, Emily adds, “Hell, you probably needed this ten years ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer’s quiet for a few moments, before looking up and asking her, “Do you think I’m making a mistake?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t have to think twice. “No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well there you go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence before Spencer announces, “I’m learning piano.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s that going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, he answers, “I love the challenge. It’s not like anything else I’ve done in my life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ll have to play for me some time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Halfway through his nod, Spencer’s smile falls. “I don’t know when I’ll come back. To the BAU. I don’t know when. I don’t know the time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you, it’s okay. I get it. I can work everything out with Cruz, I promise. And it’s not like you’re just disappearing.” Shrugging, she points out, “We still live in the same place. You still have us as your family. You can’t get rid of us that easily.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer replies, “Just like with Morgan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly. It’s not like we’ve forgotten about him since he left.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know how to tell the team.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can work on that. They’ll all understand, I can promise you that.” Grinning, Emily adds, “And hey, bonus? Now I don’t have to do extra paperwork for you and Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No amount of self control in the world could’ve stopped Spencer from blushing from his cheeks to his neck. “Emily,”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon, I had to.” After a beat, she asks, “Have you talked to him about it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The conversation we just had.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Narrowing his eyes, Spencer points out, “But we just had it. How would I have had time to tell him about it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I mean,” Emily shakes her head, “I mean taking a break. A hiatus from the BAU.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Not yet. How do you think he’ll-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll be happy for you,” Emily answers, even before Spencer can finish his question. “I swear, he’ll be happy. I know Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a smile, Spencer nods. “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Spencer admits. “But I just felt like I had to say it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Emily starts, “You’re welcome. And thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, she answers, “For taking care of yourself. For putting yourself first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer nods again, before dropping his twisting fingers down to his sides. “Can I hug you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t get too wet, right?” Luke asks, shutting his front door as soon as Spencer’s passed the threshold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Spencer shakes his head. “It just started. Barely drizzling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, Luke confirms, “Mango showers, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spencer blinks. “Er, yeah. I’m surprised you remembered.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you kidding me? I’m not going to forget rain that’s named after fruit. If only actually mangoes fell from the sky.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That would be… painful,” Spencer eventually settles on. “Especially at the velocity that rain falls at.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a wince, Luke agrees, “Okay, yeah, that would actually be painful. Wait, what’s the velocity that rain falls at?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Depends how large the raindrop is. But around eight meters per second.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, cool.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is,” Spencer agrees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Roxy trots over to Spencer, knowing full well that if she’s close to him she’ll get some nice scratches behind her ears, but gets distracted, watching the rain fall from the windows. She looks just as mesmerized as Spencer feels.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a beat, Spencer knows that he has to somehow start this conversation. However, he has no idea how he should be going about that, so Spencer just starts with the main event. “I’m going to take a break from the BAU. From working.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whoa, really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” He nods. “I talked to Emily about it this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure? Not that I’m trying to talk you out of it or anything,” Luke quickly adds, “But just- I’m not sure. I guess I wasn’t expecting anything like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I realized that my entire life has been about working, and the majority of it having to do with serial killers. Before I played piano with you, I didn’t even have any hobbies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Luke replies, “So now you’re taking some time for yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s awesome, Spencer. You deserve it. Seriously.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not exactly sure how to respond, Spencer settles with a safe, “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oblivious to the conversation, Roxy wags her tail even harder, thumping against the side of the door. At this point she’s nearly drooling from just looking at the rain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jeez,” Luke grins, “It’s really coming down out there, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raising his eyebrows, Spencer agrees, “Yeah. I never saw rain like this back in Las Vegas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Makes sense. What with it being a desert and all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Spencer continues, “It was always super dry. We’d get these random bouts of rain, super heavy rain, for about thirty or forty minutes, and then it’d just be over. A couple hours later, all of it had practically evaporated already. It’s like there was never a storm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking out of the window with his dog, Luke says, “We don’t really get that here, do we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Roxy barks, Luke just snorts. “Rox, you’ve seen rain before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All he gets is a whine in response.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just want to go splash in the puddles, don’t you?” After a quick stare down with the canine, Luke folds with a sigh. “Of course you pull out the puppy dog eyes.” Then, looking up to Spencer, he asks, “I know this is probably weird, really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>weird, but you wanna go for a walk so Roxy can get muddy and track it in my house?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Laughing from the way Luke worded his invitation, Spencer nods. “I mean, sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After clipping on Roxy’s leash, and is already halfway out the door, Luke takes a step back. “Oh shit, wait, you wanna jacket? So your sweatshirt doesn’t get all soaked or anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Underneath the frame of the door, Spencer holds his hand out, feeling each individual drop of water land. There’s more rain than he thought there’d be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Spencer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As a response, Spencer just takes the step outside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘You ready to go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Spencer smiles, looking up at the clouds above him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even without his eidetic memory, he knows that this moment will stay with him forever.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay before you all go, "Appalachian, that was a fucking shittyass ending," hear me out.<br/>Healing is not sudden, healing is not linear, and healing does not happen out of the blue. That's something that I've wanted to show for this entire story, so it didn't seem fair to Spencer to just have him all healed up at the end with a nice bow on top. He's made incredible progress, and this chapter represents a huge milestone in Spencer's life: realizing that he can, and should put himself first. </p>
<p>That doesn't mean he's now mental illness free. It doesn't mean that tomorrow he's going to be mental illness free. He probably won't be for the rest of his life, and that's just the truth of healing.<br/>It happens slowly, so slow that you can't even see it. And it continues, every day that you survive, you heal a little bit. Every day that you wake up, and every glass of water, you're healing.</p>
<p>Healing is possible for every single person, even if it doesn't look like it, and even if you can't see progress.<br/>There's no fairy tale ending for life, and I wanted to illustrate that for this book. If you don't like the ending, I get it, I really do. However, I am going to ask to not hop on anon to tell me. That is my only wish.</p>
<p>You all are wonderful people. It sounds cliché as hell, but I couldn't have done this without you all. Since November, I wrote two full length books, which is something that I could've never imagined being able to do. I have every single one of you all to thank, and I will never be able to thank you enough.<br/>I love you all, and I want you to remember that on any dark and cloudy days.</p>
<p>Even when it feels like you're not getting anywhere in life or your personal journey, remember that you are. Remember that it's so hard to see that you're making progress, even when you are.</p>
<p>Until next time, take care of yourselves &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I end up posting a lot of updates and little tidbits on my <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/appalachianapologies">tumblr</a> (AppalachianApologies), so come check that out if you're interested! I love talking with you all!</p><p>I love and care about each and everyone one of you guys, and I hope you're all doing well. If you're in a bad or scary situation, here are some hotlines for you lovely people. (Please keep in mind that the written out numbers are US hotlines.)</p><p>National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255<br/>National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673<br/>National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233</p><p>If you don't live in America and need someone to talk to, here's a list of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines">international hotlines.</a><br/>You are not alone, and I love you all &lt;3</p><p>All of the love to you wonderful people, and until next time, take care! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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